


Distance

by lightscreener



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Enemies to Enemies, M/M, Slavery, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-01 20:52:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 54,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10929825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lightscreener/pseuds/lightscreener
Summary: Captured after Illidan's failed attack on Icecrown, Kael'thas finds himself caught up in Scourge internal politics as the rest of Azeroth descends into all-out war.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know if there's a tag for it, but this is #ScourgeVictoryAU. Yes, a WotLK AU in the year of our Lord 2017. Pray for me.
> 
> I'm going to ignore all the parts of canon I don't like and note that this is snarky-douchebag-Arthas and not trying-way-too-hard-to-be-Sauron-Arthas, so I hope you're on board with that.

When they dragged him out of his cell, Kael'thas had no idea how much time had passed. There was no sun here, and the cell was windowless anyways. Weeks was likely, but months was entirely possible.

He looked like shit, he was sure of that. His hands were skeletal and his ribs showed. He was starving, not just for food, and the magical exhaustion bit him deeply. Only the thought of Arthas' repulsive slaves putting their hands on him allowed him to walk upright.

The palace they were in was hollow and dark. Echoing and empty, all warped metal and barbed ice and black stone. Kael'thas wasn't entirely sure where he was, or if he was even still on the glacier, this place hadn't yet been built when he had come here with IIlidan. It was half mausoleum and half Arthas' vanity project and Kael'thas loathed everything about it.

The two deathknights took him to a room and told himself clean himself up, with one of them implying that he wouldn't like what happened if they had to return and help him with this task. There was nothing to do but comply, Arthas was going to get what he wanted, one way or another. It was just a matter of how long it took. Kael'thas had already talked the Lich King into sparing his life, and he was certain he was going to regret it. If not today, then very soon.

The captive prince washed himself and tried not to think about anything, though he failed miserably at it. Alone in the room, his imagination ran wild in all the ways he had once been trained not to allow. Illidan and Vashj has escaped back to Outland. Were they going to rescue him? Had they even _tried_? What had become of Jaina? Was she still alive? Had she survived the Legion assault on Kalimdor? He hadn't heard anything from her since before the conflict there. She certainly hadn't come to his aid when he had been arrested. Had she known? Had she even _tried_ \--

 _No, of course she hadn't_. There was no point in thinking about it, and Kael'thas grimaced as he dressed himself in the clothes that had been laid out. His hands shook, and even if the Kelthis-lich hadn't bolted a magic-blocking collar around his neck, he wouldn't have trusted himself with a spell. _You're just a spare that no one needs or wants_.

The pair of deathknights returned, and seemingly satisfied with his appearance, ordered him to follow them. One of them was an orc, young enough that she had certainly been born on this side of the Portal. Her hair was blonde and her eyes were blue, and Kael'thas guessed she was at least half-human. The other was fully human, a man old enough to be the half-orc's grandfather, though there was an ease to his movements and a spring in his step that belied his age. One of the benefits of being dead, Kael'thas supposed, was no more aches and pains. No more joint troubles. It was hard to tell, but he thought the older deathknight, with his sun-creased features and grey-brown hair, might be from Stormwind.

He followed them without protest, because there was no point in resistance. Without his magic, he might have still been a match for either one of them. Kael'thas was a sorcerer first, but he was no stranger to swordplay either, the benefits of a long and privileged life. It hardly mattered, against two and in his current condition, he stood no chance. They led him though the citadel, always heading upwards, until they came to a pair of double doors emblazoned with the Scourge crest, each of them twice Kael's height. The man opened the door without knocking or being announced, and gestured to Kael'thas, who entered.

Inside were apartments that were lavish and richly appointed, though they had the look of never being lived in. He has never seen them personally, but Kael'thas thought they probably looked a great deal like the royal apartments back in Lorderon. As he followed the deathknights to the balcony entrace, he caught sight of a bedroom though an open door. It seemed absurd, surely Arthas didn't need to sleep, but perhaps he used it for other things. After all, the Traitor King suffered no shortage of sycophants.

The girl held the curtains that framed the balcony door aside for him, and Kael'thas stepped though.

Arthas Menethil, the Lich King, the Black God, was waiting for him. He looked largely the same as he had in life, and Kael'thas thought that might be the worst part. The Lich King was taller than he was, heavier and broader shouldered. He wore his armor, sans helmet, and the sword, Frostmourne, lay across the balcony railing, easily within reach.

With him was Abigail Turner, and though they had never met in person, Kael'thas had heard of the woman. Arthas' best friend from school, a commoner from the lowest social caste, but one who had nonetheless been blessed by the Light. He wondered if she knew how her often her name had been spoken by those in power, since Arthas had caused a scandal when he had declared that after he ascended the Throne, she would be his Highlord.

She stood next to her King now, watching Kael'thas balefully, the Ashbringer was held loosely in her grip, the killing point resting on the stone floor. The Highlord of the Scourge. The Horseman of Death.

Arthas was a great many things, but apparently he kept his promises.

His gaze fell on Kael'thas and the elf felt the weight of it. "Leave us," Arthas said.

The two escorts bowed and left immediately, while Abigail took Arthas by the arm and whispered something to him. He nodded to her in return, and to Kael'thas, it seemed oddly affectionate, even human. He ignored it. Abigail broke from her King and nodded curtly to Kael'thas as she passed.

Then, they were alone.

They were still on the glacier, and Kael'thas couldn't see the spire of the Frozen Throne, so it had either been destroyed or it had somehow been incorporated into the palace. Walls of black stone and twisted metal spanned out over a courtyard of exposed bedrock and glacial desert. The sky was dark, and it was impossible to tell if it was day or night. Mountains reached skyward in the distance, and everywhere that Kael'thas could see, the landscape was devoid of life. Even with the collar on, he could sense the power thrumming though the leylines, corrupt and poisoned, but everpresent. It was freezing, and the cold cut through the clothes he had been given.

"What," Kael'thas spat out, relieved to find his voice still worked, "do you want?"

Arthas searched him with his gaze. "To talk."

"We have _nothing_ to talk about, Arthas." Impotent fury clawed at Kael'thas' heart. "Put me back in my cell."

"Do you remember the day we met?"

"Why does that matter?" Kael'thas asked.

"Because I say it does," Arthas answered. "Do you remember or not?"

"Yes. It was at the Investiture." Kael'thas narrowed his eyes. "In light of the... troubles in the Stormwind, the Council of Lorderon wanted to make the line of succession clear. Calia was stripped of her legal status as Heir and it was given to you."

"I was six years old."

"I said I remembered it!" Kael'thas snapped. "Your sister was better than you, she was cheated, and we never even spoke to each other, not really. What's the point of this?"

Arthas chuckled, and Kael'thas was almost shocked at how much he sounded like himself. The Lich King's lips curved upwards, into a smirk. "Were you expecting me to disagree with you? After the ceremony--"

Kael'thas tilted his chin up, his best approximation of looking down at the human. "I don't care."

"You _should_ care," Arthas said, "because it involves you."

"I don't see how it possibly could."

"After the ceremony," Arthas repeated, "I told my father and my grandfather that I had decided who I was going to marry."

Kael'thas felt something inside of him twist and threaten to splinter. "Don't--"

"You."

"I said don't!" Kael'thas closed his hands into fists, for all the good it would do. "I don't want to hear it!"

"Neither did they. They didn't take it well."

"I don't give a damn how they took it, you bastard!" He regretted the words almost as soon as they had left his mouth, but his hatred of Arthas eclipsed any other emotion. If it had been any other situation, he might have been sympathetic. Instead, all that came to mind was hurting the other man.

"That's a fine insult, coming from a man who killed his mother--"

Kael'thas raised one fist and punched him. One of his knuckles caught Arthas' cheek and tore it, black blood pooling up without spilling. Arthas touched the wound, then shook the blood from his fingers, utterly unmoved.

"Tell me that isn't the reason you killed your father." Kael'thas felt like he had been running, as though he were out of breath.

"No," said Arthas, flippant now, as arrogant as he had always been. "I killed my father because I wanted to be King."

"You--"

"--but it _is_ the reason I killed your father."

Kael'tas raised his fist again, but this time Arthas caught him, wielding him across the balcony until his back hit the wall. The impact nearly knocked the wind out of him. Arthas had always been stronger, but this was untenable. His grip was like iron.

"Oh, come _on_." Arthas used his weight to pin him and Kael'thas gasped in pain. "You didn't even like him!"

"Fuck you!" Kael'thas struggled, his fingers scrabbling at the bigger man's armor. It was useless. "Arthas, if you're going to rape me, just get on with it!"

Arthas dropped him, jerking his hands away as though he'd touched something hot. Kael'thas glared up at him, using the wall for support. He put his hands on it, so Arthas wouldn't see them shake. The Lich King might ask questions that Kael'thas had no intention of answering.

"That's not," Arthas said, "why I had them bring you here."

"And what?" Kael'thas asked, drawing himself back up. "You want me to thank you?"

Arthas turned his back, his cape swirling as he walked to the balcony and rested his hands on it. Kael'thas didn't follow, but after a moment, the Lich King gestured to him. Rolling his eyes, he moved to stand next to Arthas, holding his arms over his chest. Silence swept out between them, heavy and vast. Kael'thas tried not to think of the past. Of Dalaran. Of every little jab and clash of antlers. He found that knowing the reason _why_ didn't help. It still hurt far too badly, and it was exhausting.

"There's a war going on," Arthas said, after what seemed a long time. "Between the Alliance and Horde."

Kael'thas kept his gaze fixed on the horizon. "Who's winning?"

"I am."

"As if _that_ was ever in doubt." He sighed. "Is that why you want me then, to gloat? Your slaves can't appreciate it properly?"

"My slaves are trying to murder me."

Bitter laugher bubbled up and spilled out of Kael'thas' lips. "Arthas," he said. " _I'm_ trying to murder you. The entire reason I'm your captive is a failed attempt to murder you."

"Oh don't start--"

"I've been remarkably transparent about my intentions, actually." Kael'thas glared at him. "Unbolt this collar and it won't even be an _attempt_."

Arthas returned his gaze, he seemed unmoved, but Kael'thas gave him no credit. That was an easy feat when you were in a position of unassailable power. "You don't remember promising to help me?"

"You're delusional." Kael'thas sneered up at him.

"You said when you were King, you would bring Quel'thalas back into the Alliance, that you would help me rule." Arthas took a step closer, but Kael'thas didn't cringe back.

"If I had known you were _proposing_ ," Kael'thas said, "I wouldn't have bothered trying to let you down gently. I only said it to shut you up, and I recall I also said you and everyone in Lordaeron would be dead before I ever became King."

Arthas laughed, and his breath was colder than the air somehow. "You weren't exactly wrong about that."

"Don't be a brat, Arthas." Kael'thas turned away. "Even in an imaginary world, one where I'm not considered a traitor and an infernalist, if I went back to the Alliance, it would be _to Varian_ , he's the High King now."

"I'm aware," Arthas said, "and he's doing a bang-up job of it. Are you cold?"

"As if you care."

"Kael, answer the damn question."

"Of course I'm cold, you ignorant bastard." Kael'thas shifted his grip on his arms. Somehow talking about it made it worse. "I'm cold enough that I'm probably dying of it."

Arthas reached up and snapped the fastenings of his cloak open, sweeping it off his shoulders and offering it up. Even under normal circumstances, it would have been far too big, and Kael'thas stared at it. It was new, and the blue-black fabric was lined with some kind of fur that he didn't recognize. Maybe there were animals somewhere on this continent. Maybe there were Scourge tailors and leatherworkers, and for the first time Kael'thas wondered how Arthas' little empire actually _ran_. Did the Scourge have internal power structures? Did they even _need_ them? Kael'thas had always assumed that Arthas was the head of the serpent, but perhaps not entirely. Not if his followers were conspiring against him.

"I'm not going to wear that," he said, flatly.

"Of course you are." Arthas rolled his eyes. "You want to stay alive, because you think Illidan is going to rescue you."

Kael'thas didn't answer.

"He won't, so you may as well be comfortable." Arthas took another step forward, close enough to touch, and laid the cloak over Kael'thas' shoulders. Kael'thas had intended to remain defiant, but he gave in and pulled it around himself. It wasn't warm, the way clothing that had been worn should have been, but at least it blocked the chill. "If you want to call anyone delusional, it's the man who put his faith in someone called 'the Betrayer'."

Kael'thas snorted. "It would be a little like putting my faith in a man who calls himself 'the Traitor King'."

"Stay alive as long as you like," Arthas said, nonchalant as he ignored the jab. "Live until you're sick of it for all I care. He's not coming."

"I don't want to talk about Illidan!"

"I do. Did he fuck you?"

"Considering the position I'm in, I'd say he fucked me in every conceivable way." Kael'thas clutched at the cloak. "Are you finished?"

"Not nearly."

"What?" Kael'thas glowered, and fire churned in his heart, blocked by the collar, but fighting desperately to break loose. "Do you want me to draw you some pictures?"

"I want you to help me, the way you promised to."

"Help you do _what_?" Kael'thas took a step forward. "Capture Jaina? Murder Varian? Destroy the Alliance?"

Arthas chuckled, but Kael'thas caught the way his expression fell briefly at the mention of Jaina. "As ideas go, those aren't entirely terrible."

"I'd sooner throw myself from this balcony."

"Don't be dramatic."

"I'm an elf," Kael'thas said. "We're always dramatic. You mean with this conspiracy to murder you?"

"I mean with the conspiracy to murder me."

"Heavy is the head." It was Kael'thas' turn to laugh. "Even if it exists, try to understand, _I'm on their side_."

"That's..." Arthas considered, "awfully counter-productive of you."

"Counter-productive!?" Kael'thas pointed at the collar with one bony finger. "If not for this infernal thing, I would burn down this entire continent on the off-chance you would be caught in the flames. Or is that too dramatic for you?"

"Kael? On a scale of one to ten, that was a twelve."

"Good. Then we know where we stand." Kael'thas drew his arms back inside the cloak and turned away, gazing out over the forlorn landscape. Arthas was silent, and even with all armor, still enough that if he hadn't known the other man was there, Kael'thas might have thought he was alone. There was the scrape of metal on stone as he moved, and Arthas came to the edge of the balcony, standing next to him and following his gaze.

"Let me tell you," Arthas said, subdued now, "what will happen if I'm killed."

Silence was his only recourse, so Kael'thas kept it close to his heart and didn't respond.

"If I were to be destroyed, the Scourge would break loose. They would rage out of control. First, they would spread across Northrend, but then outwards, to the Eastern Kingdoms and Kalimdor. To Kul Tiras and Kezan. To the Southern Islands. Death would rise up and consume all life."

"So what?" Kael'thas turned to him. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

"No." Arthas shook his head. "Not even remotely."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't care what you believe or don't believe," Arthas said, a hard edge in his voice. "The other possibility is that only Arthas is destroyed. In which case, it's exactly the same scenario, only you're alone here with Ner'zhul and Kel'thuzhad and I don't exist to keep them away from you."

"...and if only Ner'zhul is destroyed?"

Arthas shrugged. "Then we rule together and you're no worse off. Do you really want to roll those dice?"

"You're saying it as though I have a choice." Kael'thas turned away again, considering. "I have demands."

"You're in _no_ position to demand anything."

"Neither are you, apparently."

Arthas' hand came down on his shoulder, heavy and cold. Kael'thas got the message, and turned to face him. The Lich King took the edges of the cloak in his hands and drew his captive closer. "Tell me."

And so he did.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are some OC's here, though I hope they won't intrude too much. Also, you can watch me butcher the elven language.

"Are you--" As they walked, the elven word came to his lips, but Kael'thas realized that Arthas wouldn't know it. And for his part, he wasn't precisely sure what the human term was. He started again. "Are you only attracted to men? Was your relationship with Jaina a cover?"

"No," said Arthas, "and no."

Their footfalls echoed in the halls of the cavernous citadel, and for the most part, it seemed deserted. Icecrown was its name, or so Arthas had informed him, and it wasn't all that different from the layout of a normal human citadel, save for its size and the way a bleak silence lay over it like a blanket. There were no sounds that drifted up from the kitchens and servant quarters, no bustle of messengers and nobles coming and going, no music or art. Just the dark emptiness of a long, lonely quiet.

"Then," Kael'thas asked, "was I your sole fixation, as far as men are concerned?"

"Also no."

"Who else?"

"I'd prefer not to say," Arthas said. "Tell me about the Sunwell again. I should have _known_ it was what you would ask about."

"I need to go there," Kael'thas said. "As soon as possible, to attune to whatever is left of it and make it quiescent."

Arthas raised an eyebrow. "And that accomplishes what, exactly?"

"The Sunwell," Kael'thas said, "is an immense source of magical energy. It rests at the convergence of all Quel'thalas' leylines, but more importantly, without its keeper, it's visible from the other side of reality. If we want to be secure in our power, then dealing with it absolutely needs to be the first step."

"How would it affect--"

"Because there's no telling what it might attract or what might come through," Kael'thas explained. "A voidwalker the size of this castle, a demon lord, an infernal cache. If the island isn't swarming with lesser demons already, I'm going to be shocked. The only reason the Legion hasn't noticed it is that we're unbelievably lucky, or that no one's _looking_. Didn't Kelthis mention--"

"Kel'thuzad," Arthas corrected.

"He can call himself whatever he wants," Kael'thas snapped. "Didn't he mention this?"

"No," Arthas said, frowning. "Is this going to kill you?"

"I'll be fine," Kael'thas lied, and then lied again. "I know exactly what I'm doing."

They had come to another set of grand doors, and Arthas gripped one, pushing it open with a creak of metal and the sound of scraping ice. Kael'thas followed him inside.

Four deathknights waited, standing a loose semi-circle, all of them elves. Kael'thas knew each of them personally, Dorozhand, Alamina, Liera, and Azarian, though two, Halaster and Verah, were missing. The former Well-Watchers. The paladins who had served as the protectors of Quel'danas and leaders of the military forces there. They had doubled as his father's personal bodyguards, and ostensibly, his. Each of the deathknights was armed, though none of them wore their armor, and their darkly colored clothing looked new. Once again, Kael'thas wondered who was making it all.

Arthas had said he would find bodyguards to accompany them to Quel'danas, but this was the last thing Kael'thas had been expecting. If it was an attempt to torment him or not, he wasn't sure. None of the Well-Watchers would look at him or meet his gaze. Kael'thas didn't allow it to bother him, by all rights, they _should_ be ashamed. Their discomfort was meaningless.

"Undress," Arthas ordered.

Dorozhand, their leader, shifted his weight, looking uncomfortable without allowing displeasure to show on his face. "How... much, your majesty?"

"Until Kael'thas is satisfied," Arthas snapped.

"I'm satisfied now," Kael'thas protested. Dorozhand and his lieutenants were traitors and blackguards, but they were still his people, and he didn't want to humiliate them. "There's no need for this."

"No you aren't," Arthas answered, and his attention shifted back to his servants. "Dorozhand?"

"Your majesty?"

"Is there some reason I'm still waiting?"

Dorozhand undid his shirt without further protest, sliding it off his shoulders and letting it fall to the floor. His flesh was waxy and white-grey, his chest was marred by a wound from a sword. There was another near his navel, a neat exit wound, a prize from being stabbed in the back. The scar tissue was discolored, shimmering and light blue. It looked more like ice than flesh. Alamina was in even worse shape, she looked like she been split in half and crudely welded back together, a massive blue scar covered most of her chest like a sash, and one of her breasts was missing. Liera's wound was small, a single puncture between her breasts, barely noticeable. It could almost have been a tattoo. Azarian's entire throat was a tangled mess of jagged blue tissue. His head had been cut off and put back on, Kael'thas realized, horrified.

"Why... why do your wounds look like that?" he asked.

Dorozhand didn't answer, but from behind Kael'thas, Arthas spoke up. "Because they came from Frostmourne."

"I--"

"When I told him what we were doing, Dorozhand was somewhat... concerned that you wouldn't want him to return to Quel'danas with you," Arthas said. "I thought you might draw some comfort from knowing that he was willing to die for your father. He didn't betray you while he was alive. None of them did."

"I see." Kael'thas glanced back at Arthas, feeling his heart clench. He had judged too quickly and far too harshly and he vowed not to do it again. "Dorozhand can _be_ concerned about my opinions, without prompting from you?"

"Yes, he can." Arthas gestured, "and he's an adult, he can speak for himself."

Kael'thas turned to the other elf, though Dorozhand looked straight past him, to Arthas. He rested his hands on his belt, his white-grey fingers contrasting sharply with the black leather, and he started to unbuckle it. "Should I keep undressing?" he asked.

"No," said Arthas, "that's enough, and speak freely, if you have something to say."

Dorozhand's gaze turned to Kael'thas at last. " _Shalas'olori_ ," he said. _Forgive us_.

" _Palam'diriel_ , Dorozhand," Kael'thas answered. _No apology is required_. He found he meant it.

"Prince Kael'thas--" Dorozhand began.

"I should have been there." Kael'thas cut the deathknight off. "You did everything that could have been asked."

He crossed the room to Dorozhand and took him by the hands. The other man was cold, but Kael'thas kissed him on both cheeks in the traditional way and Dorozhand copied the greeting in turn. He did the same for Alamina and Liera, then paused before Azarian. "Azarian," he asked, "does it hurt you when someone touches your face?"

"He can't speak any longer," Dorozhand said, "but he'll be fine."

Kael'thas took the man's hands and kissed him on both cheeks. "Where are Halaster and Verah?" he asked, turning to Dorozhand again. "Are they coming? I want to see them."

Dorozhand didn't answer, but his gaze fell on Frostmourne, which Arthas carried across his back.

"Sometimes..." he began, but then trailed off.

"Tell him," Arthas said.

"Sometimes," said Dorozhand, holding his hands out, as though to show they were empty, "there's nothing left."

It felt as though his heart had fallen from his chest, and Kael'thas was sure if he'd eaten anything that day, he would have vomited. Liera crossed her arms over herself and wept, and Kael'thas was startled that she _could_. He was struck by how small and vulnerable she looked, so unlike the harbinger of death she'd been transformed into, and he realized she was still half-dressed. He whirled around, glaring at Arthas.

"We need to talk," he said, forcing his tone to stay level.

Something passed between Arthas and Dorozhand, and the deathknight lowered his head. He retrieved his shirt, followed by the others, who did the same. They all left without another word, though Kael'thas kept his gaze on Arthas. He tried to mourn Halaster and Verah, but all he felt was fury. Even a deathknight was better than him, and he tried not to dwell on it.

"You monster," Kael'thas hissed. "You absolute bastard."

"I've been called worse."

"You are worse!"

"Do you want to talk?" Arthas asked. "Or do you just want to insult me?"

"Keep your hands off of Dorozhand! Off Liera!" Kael'thas stalked across the room to him, and Arthas caught him by the wrist before he could raise a hand. Perhaps the Lich King just didn't like being struck, because it wasn't as if hurt him.

Arthas dragged him closer, leaning down over him. "I'm sure I don't know what you're talking about."

"He _asked_ you how much you wanted him to undress!" Kael'thas pointed in the direction the deathknights had left through. "Is he used to asking that!?"

"You think that little of me?"

"We would need one of the cosmic microscopes in Dalaran for you to accurately conceive of how little I think of you."

"I missed you," Arthas said, candidly. There was something in his voice that _almost_ approached fondness.

"What!?"

"I missed you." Arthas repeated himself. He glanced in the direction Dorozhand and the others had left through. "It shouldn't be that difficult to understand. They're dull. They bore me. There would be no challenge in it. That should be proof enough."

"They're _terrified_ of you," Kael'thas said, and he shoved at Arthas. It was pointless, it was like trying to move a mountain. "Dorozhand has a personality, I'm sure you're aware of that. He always spoke his mind to my father."

"You really--"

"If you need to trust these people not to cut your throat in your sleep--"

"I don't sleep."

"I don't _care_ ," Kael'thas snapped. "If you want to trust people, don't needlessly humiliate them!"

Arthas released him, and Kael'thas retreated backwards, though only a few steps. "It wasn't needless."

"You ordered them to undress for you."

"That's absurd," Arthas said. "I ordered them to undress for _you_."

"And I said it was needless!"

"You can _say_ anything you like, Kael." Arthas chuckled darkly. "There was no other explanation you would have accepted. You thought they were traitors."

Kael'thas rolled his eyes, though Arthas was right and the thought stung badly. "You can't read my mind, Arthas."

"...and yet I remain perfectly capable of reading your face."

"We're getting off-topic," Kael'thas said.

"I agree. Do you want to talk about the Sunwell, or about who comes to my bed?"

"The latter," Kael'thas said, "and then the former. If not Dorozhand or Liera, who _does_ come to your bed?"

"No one."

"You must be lonely."

"Are you offering to remedy that?"

"You are such an unbelievably arrogant bastard," Kael'thas said. He exhaled sharply. "If it keeps your hands off my people, then fine."

"That's hardly a 'yes'," Arthas said.

"It isn't a 'no'."

"Were you more enthusiastic with Illidan?"

Kael'thas turned away. He didn't want to think about Illidan, and yet the Betrayer had a way of intruding on this thoughts. He had been even taller and bigger than Arthas was, but so much more careful with his strength. There had been a precision to him that Arthas lacked. There had been the beat of wings, the prick of claws. The way he had looked when he was sleeping.

'Enthusiastic' didn't come close to the right word. 'We enabled each other endlessly' would have been a far better assessment.

Athas had come to him, and he cupped Kael'thas' cheek on one hand. His armor was cold, but Kael'thas allowed the contact without flinching away. "I don't want to talk about Illidan," he said.

"That's probably for the best," Arthas stroked Kael'thas' cheek with one thumb. "Chances are, he's dead."

Kael'thas thought of Dorozhand and Liera's Frostmourne wounds, Illidan's had been far worse, but he had still be living when Vashj had spirited him away. They had succumbed, but surely the Betrayer was stronger. There was a second reason, Kael'thas realized, that Arthas had wanted him to see Dorozhand's wounds. He gazed up, meeting the Lich King's eyes. "If you had killed him, if he was inside that sword, you wouldn't have missed a chance to torment me with it."

"That's true," Arthas said, "but you heard Dorozhand. Sometimes, there's nothing left."


	3. Chapter 3

In the end, he did go to Arthas' bed, though the Lich King didn't join him.

Instead, Arthas had brought him back to the apartments and left him there, telling him to get some sleep.

"You're no good to me if you're too weak to walk," he said. "We can leave for Quel'danas when you're feeling stronger."

The moment the heavy doors had slammed closed behind Arthas, Kael'thas tore the place apart.

He went to the bed first. The sheets and blankets were all new and clean, with no proof it had ever been slept in or otherwise used. It didn't necessarily prove what Arthas had claimed, that he had never ordered anyone into it, but it wasn't damning either. There was no shortage of human, or perhaps 'living', affectations in the rooms. A writing desk, racks of shelves, chests for storage, and stacks of drawers, though they were all empty. Arthas didn't truly live here, but then again, he wasn't truly living at all.

There was an eating area with a table and chairs, large enough that it could be used for entertaining, and Kael'thas ran his hands over the black wood of the table. It wasn't from anywhere in the Eastern Kingdoms, and though it had been sanded down, it wasn't yet smooth and polished from years of use. Mentally, he added 'woodworkers' to the list of Scourge professions. Someone had to be building all of this, perhaps some of the deathknights had been craftsmen before being transformed, or perhaps it was slaves taken from Lordaeron or Kalimdor. He tipped out the drawers in the serving area, but they were empty. It was too much to hope that there would be a knife in there, but what would he even do with it?

Frustrated, he went out to the balcony, peering down over the edge. It was too sheer to climb, a straight plunge downwards, with no discernible handholds. Even if he _could_ reach the floor of glacier, where would he go? The sky was so dark that he couldn't read the stars, and there was no way to tell which direction he was facing. Worse, he had no ability to interpret Icecrown's geography or landmarks. If he got outside, he would freeze to death before he got anywhere. Useless.

Finally, he tried the main door. Throwing his whole weight into it was futile. It didn't budge.

Earlier, the human deathknight had opened it easily enough on his own, so perhaps it was sealed with magic. With the collar on, he couldn't tell.

It was another cell, albeit a more comfortable one.

With no other recourse, he returned to the bedroom and climbed onto the bed. It was too big for his tastes, and too soft. The pillows were absurdly gigantic, which offended his delicate elven sensibilities. Pillows were supposed to be tiny, and you were _supposed_ to have dozens of them, for lounging. The blankets were, in turn, too heavy, where they were supposed to be gauzy, thin silks. All of his complaints were silenced when he lay down and passed out almost instantly. He slept dreamlessly, for what seemed a long time, and when he woke, he hardly felt rested.

It was hard to find a reason to rise from the bed, and Arthas hadn't returned for him. For a time, he tossed and turned, though he couldn't get back to sleep, and as he was brooding, he heard a noise in the apartments. Curious, he slid from the bed and went to investigate.

At first, when Arthas had claimed there was a conspiracy forming against him, Kael'thas had assumed he was, well, lying. Or at least badly deluded. A mindless construct didn't rebel against its master, but if the deathknights could think for themselves, it wasn't hard to believe that some of them thought a change of leadership was in order. Was it men from Lordaeron, angry with the destruction of their homeland and the death of Terenas? Slaves that Arthas had culled from the Horde, chafing at the thought of following a human king? Was it Kael'thas' own people? They were few in number compared to the others, but elves had long memories and a penchant for grudges.

If the conspiracy existed somewhere other than in Arthas' mind, it wasn't hard for Kael'thas to conclude that he might be a target as well.

Which was a shame, because he was essentially defenseless.

He stepped into the main room, and finding it empty, crossed it to the eating area.

Dorozhand was there, with two human women. They weren't deathknights, and while Kael'thas couldn't sense their auras, he could tell they were alive. The looked quelled somehow, utterly subservient, and they were setting out food. As they worked, one of them set down a scroll of papers, opposite where the plate of food rested. Curious. As it was before, Dorozhand was armed but didn't wear his armor. Apparently deathknights had casual dress. When the women finished, he sent them away.

" _Avan'avath isilia_ , Kael'thas, _sel_..." Dorozhand said, gesturing. _I know you don't eat from the bodies of animals, but..._

Kael'thas sat down in one of the chairs, took the plate without protest, and began eating. If he was going to stay alive, starving himself was pointless. Half the plate was some sort of root vegetables that had been roasted in oil. A few he recognized, though they were human fare, nothing that was grown in Quel'thalas. The cut of meat that occupied the other half was red, with a thick cap of fat, and if he was to be forced to eat it, he wished it had at least been fish. Kael'thas had seen enough anatomical models to know it hadn't come from a humanoid, so he didn't inquire about the source. It was filthy and disgusting, but it wasn't unholy.

"How's your Common, Dorozhand?" he asked as he ate.

"Fine," the deathknight said, walking to the other side of the table and sitting. "Better now. I get a lot of practice these days."

"Arthas doesn't like it when people speak Thalassian over his head." He cut into the meat and found it was rare. The juices ran out and touched the vegetables, and it made him want to gag. "Especially me. He hated it when he was alive, and I can only imagine it's gotten worse. If you speak to me, do it in Lordaeron's dialect."

Dorozhand straightened in his seat. "I understand, Prince Kael'thas."

"Where's you wedding ring?" Kael'thas glanced at Dorozhand's unadorned fingers. "Arthas didn't cut your hands off."

Dorozhand's gaze caught his. "Where's yours?"

"I'm not married," Kael'thas said, pointedly.

"You should be," Dorozhand said. "Didn't Voren'thal or one of your other advisors insist? After the transfer of power, surely they ..."

"Yes," Kael'thas admitted. Using the fork, he pushed the food around on the plate until he found a 'clean' vegetable, and lifted it to his mouth. "They did. I ignored them. The last thing Quel'thalas needed was another useless Heir."

Dorozhand folded his hands together on the table. "Then I suppose my answer is that I'm not married either."

Kael'thas raised an eyebrow. "So you're divorced?"

"In a manner of speaking."

"What does Saleh have to say about that?" Kael'thas asked.

"Nothing," answered Dorozhand. "Because he's dead."

"My condolences," Kael'thas said, dropping the line of questioning, though curiosity burned at him. He cut a piece of the meat and ate carefully, it was warm, though he cared for neither the texture nor the taste. "Are you welcome in Arthas' private chambers? Do you come here often?"

"If this place were truly his, and if it was truly private, I would assume not." Dorozhand watched him eat. "This is the first time."

"Who built all this furniture?" Kael'thas tapped the surface of the table with one finger. "It's not elven craftsmanship. Where did it come from?"

"The _vrykul_ ," Dorozhand said. It wasn't a word Kael'thas recognized. "They make most of the goods you see the Scourge using."

"Are those the native inhabitants of Northrend?"

Dorozhand nodded. "They're giants. Proto-humans. Fierce warriors."

"Fascinating."

"They worship Arthas," Dorozhand said, casually, as though they were chatting about the weather. "They think he's the God of Death."

"They aren't exactly wrong," Kael'thas muttered.

"Are you finished interrogating me, Prince Kael'thas?" Dorozhand smiled thinly. "Or is this going to be a new Sunfire Inquisition?"

"I'm not finished," Kael'thas said, "and it will be, if that's what's required. What day is it?"

"I don't know the exact date."

"Guess," Kael'thas prompted.

"It would be middle-summer, in Quel'thalas."

Kael'thas set down the utensils and reeled. Over a year then, since he had been arrested. Close to five months since the failed attack on Icecrown. He tried not to be ill, though it took focus. Perhaps Arthas was right, and no one was coming. After all, why would they? It wasn't as if they had needed him for anything, even before the fall of Quel'thalas.

"Kael'thas," Dorozhand said, interrupting his thoughts. "You recall, I always spoke my mind to your father."

"I was just telling Arthas about that, actually." He pushed the plate aside, his appetite was gone.

"It's a habit I intend to continue with you."

"I'm really not in the mood to--"

"Does... Arthas know?" Dorozhand asked. "That you've never been inside the Sunwell Chamber? Do _you_ have any idea what you're doing?"

The thought that Arthas, of all people, had been inside the Sunwell Chamber and he hadn't was equal parts sobering and depressing.

"No," said Kael'thas, "he doesn't know, and I'll figure something out. I'm perfectly aware that murderers aren't permitted inside, as are you, there was no need to remind me."

He was going to look like world's biggest idiot when Arthas knew the way to the inner sanctums and he didn't. Perhaps he could just allow the human to take the lead, Arthas liked that anyways. He liked to show off his strength, to be in control. It would work just fine, unless the Lich King had forgotten the way, or he had never cared to know it - having been led there by another the first time. What if Arthas asked him to describe it, or questioned him about the architecture and layout? No, that was even more foolish, Arthas wouldn't care about those things, but still--

Kael'thas rubbed his face with both hands. What a disaster.

"You aren't a murderer," Dorozhand said, softly. He flattened one of the rolls of paper and started drawing on it. 

"You could have told that to my father," Kael'thas snapped, looking up, his eyes flashing. It had come out harsher than he had intended. He didn't want to make an enemy out of Dorozhand. Not pointlessly, at least. "What are you doing?"

"Drawing you a map," Dorozhand returned, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "And I did. On a dozen occasions. Not that he cared to hear it."

"He cared to hear very little about me, as I recall." Kael'thas kept his tone high, to hide the fact that he was relieved.

"Your mother was..." Dorozhand paused, as though considering his words. "Under immense pressure, from her family, to conceal her illness from the royal court. Her father wanted to secure ascension through the marriage contract, and of course, through you--"

"Dorozhand!" Kael'thas put his palms on the table and rose. "I'm aware that my entire existence was a pointless political shitshow, and that I shouldn't have been born! Are you quite done!? Or is there anything else from the past you'd like to drag out?"

"I suppose if you aren't going to get us all horrifically killed on Quel'danas, then yes." Dorozhand slid the paper across the table to Kael'thas and rose. "I'm quite done."

"Tell Arthas I'm ready to leave."

"You look terrible."

Kael'thas rolled his eyes. "I don't care how I look."

Dorozhand started to say something, but instead, he sighed to himself. He nodded to the captive Prince, turned on his heel, and left. A moment later, Kael'thas head the scrape of metal as the door swung out. Dorozhand could open it himself, so it must be enchanted. There was something in the citadel important enough that a captive couldn't be allowed to wander.

Kael'thas sank back down into his chair, shaking. He stayed like that for a time, letting his thoughts twist and churn.

Finally, he took the map, wondering if Dorozhand was a good place to start looking for Scourge traitors.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, in addition to everything /else/ that's non-canonical here, the Sunwell never got turned into a living person who has their own thoughts and feelings (seriously Blizzard, what the actual fuck).
> 
> Also, in case it wasn't obvious, Kel'thuzad is an assumed name, and his real name is Nikolai Kelthis. Kael'thas is deliberately referring to him by his last time to be unfamiliar and rude.

"Your majesty," Kel'thuzad said, and Kael'thas got the impression that the lich looked nervous, "I urge you to reconsider this course of action. A larger force of bodyguards, perhaps? I could select some that are far more... suitable."

Arthas didn't care to hear it. To the Lich King's left and right, Abigail and Dorozhand stared down the skeletal necromancer with open loathing. Liera, Alamina, and Azarian stood a more respectful distance from their master, though Arthas had told Kael'thas to stand next to him.

They waited inside some kind of portal array, deep within the citadel. Circles for sorcerous workings were laid into the ground, and focusing structures were built directly into the walls. A great deal of the material was mithril and gold, though a few of the circles were ringed with glyphs of arcanite and elementium. As far as channeling power went, they represented the best known materials for it, though some of the tools and structures were formed of a material Kael'thas didn't recognize. The same warped, swirling metal that the palace had been built from, and he wondered again where it came from. The collar still blocked a great deal, so Kael'thas couldn't sense any fine details, but the thrum of power that cascaded through this place was unmistakable.

"What," Arthas asked, "exactly do you think we're going to find on Quel'danas that might _require_ more bodyguards?"

"I'm merely saying that--"

"And why," Arthas said, "did you not think to mention this to me before?"

"We were so busy securing Northrend--"

"Which would be meaningless if we're all destroyed by the Legion." Arthas waved one hand, dismissive. "Open the portal. We'll discuss this later, but I'm hardly pleased with you."

"My liege, I don't feel you should commit to this action on the word of this _elf_." Kel'thuzad huffed, which was an incredible feat, because he didn't really have a mouth. "Kael'thas is an infernalist, the Betrayer's unclean consort. He can't be trusted! He tried to murder you."

"Well," said Arthas, flippant, "so did you, you and Kael are even in that regard. As to the rest--"

"Yes, your majesty?"

"When I'm interested in your opinion about who shares my bed," Arthas snapped, "I'll ask for it. Until then, consider this your invitation to be silent."

Normally, Kael'thas found the human's arrogance insufferable, and the Light forbade taking joy in the misfortune of others, but he allowed himself to feel the smallest measure of glee at Kel'thuzad's predicament. It wasn't as if he had been truly devout in the first place.

 _It's only going to get worse, you bastard_ , he thought. _Soon, you won't have the Sunwell's power to set you apart from the others_.

Perhaps Kael'thas didn't know _exactly_ what he was doing, but he would break Kel'thuzad's grip over the Second Sun if it destroyed them both. Fire curled around his heart, eager to be free. Sooner or later, it would be, and when it was, he vowed he would make Nikolai Kelthis wish he'd been executed all those years ago, instead of merely banished from Dalaran.

Kel'thuzad performed a mid-air bow and turned away from them, floating down, into the central array, his hands tracing patterns in the air. Kael'thas watched closely, memorizing the crude pattern of spells and watching the way the glyphs reacted. It was functional, if totally lacking in form and grace.

 _Humans_ , he thought. _So artless with magic_.

Well, not entirely. Jaina had been far more delicate in her shaping, but Kael'thas wanted to think about her even less than he wanted to think of Illidan. He hoped she was safe, and he wondered where she stood in the war Arthas claimed was raging outside Northrend. Perhaps she was with Varian, behind Stormwind's walls. Safe from the Scourge, at least for the moment.

The portal crackled open, Abigail and Dorozhand stepping out from behind Arthas to pass through first.

Kael'thas wondered at it. Dorozhand had asked for forgiveness, and he had treated the pair of slaves kindly, even covered for Kael'thas' lie about the Sunwell, yet he seemed totally devoted to Arthas. Abigail made no attempt to conceal her hated of Kel'thuzad, but she and Arthas seemed to hold each other in the strictest friendship and confidence.

It was strange, but it wasn't as if they would be the first ones to have paradoxical loyalties or a set of beliefs that stood at odds with itself. It was always the worst sinners who professed the greatest devotion to the Light.

Kael'thas felt Arthas' hand on his back, the Lich King's armor cold enough that it bit through the clothing he had been given. He needed no further prompting, and he followed Arthas through the portal. Behind them, Kael'thas caught sight of Azarian as the deathknight shifted his grip on his weapon, raising his middle finger in Kel'thuzad's general direction.

He would have smiled, if not for what lay before him.

Previously, Kael'thas had only ever come to the main port on Quel'danas, never intruding on the island that had become his father's private retreat and sanctuary. Elves older than he was recalled a time when the island (though not the Plateau itself, of course) had been open to the public as the site of holiday festivals, though those times had passed from the world when Kael'thas had been born. Seventeen years after the Queen's death, Dorozhand had at last convinced Anasterion to declare Silvermoon's long time of mourning was over, and that summer, the ban on celebrations was lifted. Citizens were permitted to gather and rejoice in private, though it remained forbidden to Kael'thas.

He had not returned there to claim his father's body. Voren'thal and Rommath had borne the king from Quel'danas, already shrouded, and Kael'thas had concealed a lack of grief under anger and hatred. He told them he would mourn after Quel'thalas was avenged. Perhaps Rommath had believed him, but Voren'thal was far older and wiser.

It meant that his only memories of the island were of it in its splendor, and it would not be an exaggeration to say that it now lay in ruins. Dawnstar Village was a smouldering wreck, the bones of the dead laying where they had fallen, the husks of buildings fallen into themselves from lack of care. The sky was clouded over, and it was raining lightly. Silently, Kael'thas resigned himself to never seeing the sun again. He glanced over at Dorozhand, who looked subdued and grim.

Overlooking the Plateau, the estate that once been his parents' summer home still stood, though it was badly overgrown and the outer walls were in shambles. He had been born there, though he had no memory of it. Perhaps Arthas hadn't bothered burning it down.

The Plateau was mostly intact. The outer walls still stood, though Rommath had said the Dead Scar extended almost all the way into the inner chambers, it faced the southern side of the island, and Kael'thas couldn't see it. Fire was licking at parts of the building. The roiling smoke rising from the interior was black-green.

Kael'thas tilted his chin up, and he could see the tower of an Infernal's body, rising above the treeline. It wasn't the only one - there were splintered, burning trees to the south, and the ground was pocked with craters that pooled with toxic runoff - just the only one he could see.

"A cache," he whispered. "Damn it."

"What?" Arthas asked.

"It's... the word for a group of Infernals," Kael'thas said. He looked around. They were on the coast, nowhere close to the Plateau. On the other side of the island from the Dead Scar.

"I don't care," Abigail said, drawing the Ashbringer from her back. "Why the hell are we on the coast and not inside the building?"

Arthas reached for Frostmourne, presumably to get an answer from Kel'thuzad.

"Don't even ask him," Abigail snapped. "Just set him on fire."

"It's not off the table," Arthas said. He glanced up, over the trees. "Can you kill that thing?"

She nodded.

Arthas reached up and gripped the hilt of Frostmourne. "Is that just the Ashbringer talking?"

Abigail gave him a look that was half incredulous, half put out. Jaina had once explained to Kael'thas that humans considered this to be what they called a 'bitch, please' look. The Highlord squared her shoulders. "Let's not measure dicks over who has the best magical sword, Arthas."

"I'm game," he retorted instantly, "I'll win."

Kael'thas sensed movement, and though she was yet to speak at all today, Liera darted out from behind Dorozhand and drew her weapons, vanishing into the trees. Perhaps the Horseman of Death was formidable, but Kael'thas doubted that Liera could triumph on her own. He looked to Dorozhand, but the leader of the Well-Watchers was already following, Abigail running alongside him.

Seconds later, Kael'thas heard the shriek of cold wind and saw the shadows warp and twist. The Infernal bore down on what must have been their location, its footfalls shaking the ground. In the distance, Kael'thas saw two more rearing up over the trees, attracted to the noise.

Arthas took him by the arm, the cold of the Lich King's gauntlets knifing through clothing once again. "Let's go," Arthas said. "Abigail and Dorozhand will secure the island. Kael, can those things report back to the Legion?"

"They're not usually intelligent. They're siege engines."

"Good," Arthas said. "Then show me the way."

Thank the Light for Dorozhand.

Kael'thas nodded to him and jerked his arm away, hurrying down one of the side roads, Arthas followed. He would have thought it would be difficult for a man in full armor to keep up, but he supposed the dead were tireless.

Calling to mind the map, he came to the first set of wards, but it was deactivated. The power was out, something was corrupting the flow of essence and it was apparent everywhere, even to Kael'thas' stunted magical senses. Whatever was left of the Sunwell's output affected everything, and disquieting patterns showed themselves in the bark of overgrown trees and the shifting layout of cracked tiles. The rain fell in a repeat that whispered of darkness. Even the air tasted sour.

During the winter of the year Kael'thas had been born, his father had dismissed the staff who tended to the outlying buildings and the chamber housing the Sunwell itself. As a result, the buildings had been in disrepair long before the Scourge had come here. The undead invasion had simply been the final blow. Whole sections of the Sun Keep had collapsed, blocking their way. In places, the ceilings had staved in, and water flowed freely into the building.

It made Kael'thas despair, though he knew that like the buildings that surrounded any other important magical font, the architecture mattered very little.

In places, they encountered lesser demons. There were swarms of imps, which were ubiquitous, they were prone to following in the wake of any demon more powerful, which typically meant 'most of them'. They had probably been clustering around the cache when it had been pulled through. Wyrmtongue scavengers, bent double under the weight of their bags as they gleefully looted. Arthas dispatched them all without effort or a second thought, either with the edge of the blade or with howling blasts of frost and shadow.

"If they've seen us," he said, "we shouldn't allow them to escape."

"Even if they did, they wouldn't be believed." Kael'thas shrugged. "Imps are beneath notice, Arthas. The Wyrmtongue are notoriously untrustworthy. Besides, it won't matter once I close off the Sunwell. We're wasting time."

Arthas gazed at him.

"What?" Kael'thas felt hatred grip and tighten around his heart. He refused to allow himself to forget that he was in the presence of the man responsible for all this. It was fine to use Arthas, he reminded himself. Perfectly acceptable to lie to him. Even sleeping with him could be justified, if it got him what he wanted. While closing off the Sunwell would _technically_ be aiding the Scourge, if only in the sense that it would protect the planet and they were inhabitants of the planet, Kael'thas had no intention of bending his knee to the Lich King.

"Are you an infernalist?" Arthas asked. "How do you know so much about demons?"

"This is _hardly_ the time."

"...but, are you?"

Kael'thas raised an eyebrow. "Do you mean, 'according to the legal definition under Alliance law'?"

"Yes."

"Then, yes."

"Okay, but what about in a more abstract--"

"Also yes." Kael'thas glared at him as he stalked past and headed for the main building. "You heard what Kelthis called me. He wasn't _wrong_ , Arthas. Try to stay focused, we're here to consolidate power, not chat with each other."

They passed the final set of wards, this one still active as it flickered and pulsed. The power was merely intermittent here, despite the fact that it was out elsewhere. When it deactivated, Kael'thas stepped across it and Arthas followed a moment later. They had come to the final door, though the gold-inlaid wood had been cut away and kicked in.

Kael'thas felt his breath catch. He reached out to touch what was left. The wood was wet, rotting. The whole place felt defiled. "You did this."

"Yes," said Arthas, "but we're not here to chat with each other. You can hate me when you're safely back in Icecrown."

"I hate you now," Kael'thas murmured. He turned his head, looking over his shoulder at Arthas. "You aren't allowed inside."

"That's absurd. I've already been inside."

"I don't care," Kael'thas said, his tone high and cold. "This place isn't for you. If you truly want my allegiance, you can start by showing me some basic respect."

Arthas frowned, but he stepped back, gesturing to the door with one hand.

Kael'thas stepped inside, glancing around, not entirely sure what to expect. The Well lay at ground level, the surface shimmering with red-gold light, the color of a dying day. He could see the lip of the basin, and he despaired at how much had been drained. All that was left was dregs. He had no tools to measure it, but he would have guessed less than one tenth of the Source remained.

The rest of the room was surprisingly simple. That was to be expected, with powerful Sources, the emanations would disrupt and warp any furnishings or decorations. Likewise, elaborate construction could snarl and disrupt the flow of energy. The body of the Well was housed in a small enclosure with no ceiling, and the rain flowed in freely, the magical energy in the air burning it away before it could enter the basin of red and gold tiles. 

Kael'thas went to the edge and although the floor was filthy, he knelt, at a loss for what to do. He wondered how long Arthas' patience would hold out. 

Not long, most likely. 

While the collar prevented him from casting spells and disrupted his ability to extend his magical senses, it couldn't block everything. Not for a sorcerer as talented as Kael'thas. It wouldn't prevent him from attuning to the Sunwell, a source of power that lay outside himself. What he would do afterwards was the question, and he wondered how his father had controlled the output. 

He wondered if he might use all that was left to free himself. Perhaps he could wrench the collar open from within and vent his wrath on Arthas. Even with the bare threads of what remained in the Sunwell he could tear the sky asunder and call down a storm of fire that would kill them both. He would have to kill Abigail too, have to melt the corrupted Ashbringer into slag. Dorozhand would surely come to the aid of his new King instead of saving himself and his lieutenants, and Kael'thas would kill him too. The thought was sobering, and he wasn't sure if he had either the will or the strength in him.

It was difficult to dismiss Arthas' threat on the balcony. Had he been bluffing? Would killing the Lich King set the Scourge loose on an unsuspecting Azeroth? Kael'thas wondered if he had the right or the moral authority to make that choice.

 _An infernalist. The Betrayer's unclean consort_. 

No, he decided. He didn't. 

He had promised Voren'thal, Rommath, and Parthleon that they were all going home someday. He decided too, that that promise would take precedence over any others he made. 

Rising from where he knelt, he took off his boots and set them aside. The basin was warm, despite the rain, and he left footprints in the dirt and filth as he descended to the bottom. He hesitated for a moment, then stepped into the water. It didn't even reach his ankles, but he felt power wash over and engulf him. Closing his eyes, he lost himself in the current.

*** *** ***

"Kael'thas!" Rommath shouted. "Dayori's dead!"

Snow crunched under his boots as he turned. Magistrix Dayori lay crumpled on the ground, no longer convulsing, Rommath and Voren'thal kneeling by her. The portal that she and the others had been struggling to hold open flickered and wavered, snapping shut before irising back open in a surge of light. One of the other mages shuddered under the strain, they weren't going to last much longer. Another minute, perhaps less. Pathaleon stood to one side, his hand over his mouth, and the crowd of Sunfury and Naga forces that had been trying to evacuate drew backwards, wary of the magical backlash.

Illidan lay broken and bleeding, Vashj coiling around him protectively as he convulsed. Two of her handmaidens hovered over them, working to close his wounds and failing. It was hard to imagine him helpless, the Betrayer had seemed untouchable, imperious, invincible. Kael'thas looked away, back towards the horizon.

The Scourge were not so much an enemy force as they _were_ the horizon. They swarmed across the glacier, spilling down out of the cliffs, jostling for space on the ground, crowding the skies. Kael'thas stared in wonder and horror, there were more of them than he had ever dreamed possible.

"Kael'thas!" Vashj called out to him. "The portal! We cannot stay here!"

She was right, they couldn't.

He turned and hurried down to them, his three lieutenants gazing up him. Voren'thal and Rommath standing as he approached, and Kael'thas looked between them. Pathaleon was too young, and a null besides. Rommath too much like Kael'thas himself. That left Voren'thal, fragile with his seizures and his failing health.

Kael'thas unwound the chain he wore around his neck and caught the vial attached to it in his hand. It glittered, bright octarine in the failing light. He went to Voren'thal and put it in the other sorcerer's hands.

"Prince Kael'thas--" Voren'thal gazed at him, worried.

"Go," Kael'thas said. He took Voren'thal's hands and closed them over the vial. "I'll hold the portal."

"Alone?" asked Rommath. "How will you get through?"

"Alone." Kael'thas nodded to him. "I won't. Help Illidan. Keep Voren'thal and the vial safe."

"You... can't honestly expect that we'll leave you," Voren'thal said.

"Rommath," Kael'thas said, glancing at him, and the magister took Voren'thal by the arm. "Parthleon, he'll need you too."

Pathaleon came to him, kissing him on both cheeks and taking his hands. His touch was an unpleasant buzz, but Kael'thas endured it without complaint, as he always had. He glanced at Vashj, and she gazed up at him.

"Take care of him," he said.

She nodded, her hair mimicking the gesture she rose. "I will." With one of her upper hands, she gestured to her attendants, who lifted Illidan between them.

Kael'thas didn't look at him, he already knew what needed to be done, and there was no point in making it more difficult. He walked past them into the center of the staging ground, waving the other mages away with a gesture. Magic came differently to everyone, and it had not taken long for Kael'thas to discover that all of his teachers had been afraid of him. He raised his hands and seized the fluttering spell that powered the portal, tearing the fabric of reality apart, breaching the Nether.

Around him, the others started to stream through and disappear. Vashj, Illidan, and her attendants first. Rommath knelt, lifting Dayori's body in his arms to bear it along.

Voren'thal stopped next to him, lingering. This close, Kael'thas could see the stars in his eyes. The same gift that let the Seer see into the future was what made him frail, and Kael'thas wouldn't have wished it on anyone. "I--" Voren'thal began, and then hesitated.

Kael'thas concentrated on the spell, but shook his head. "Don't tell me."

"I won't," Voren'thal said. There was a pause. "Leave the lights on. So we can find the way back."

...and then he was following the others, the rippling surface of the portal closing around him, taking him away.

*** *** ***

Kael'thas held his hands out in front of him, feeling the echoes of power. He couldn't repair the damage that had been done to the Sunwell or banish the corruption that lingered, that would have been beyond his talents, even without the collar. He exhaled, slowly. More likely then not, he wouldn't live to see it restored. The best he could do was shut it down and hope that Voren'thal and the others returned someday. That they would do better. There was only one possible course of action, and the realization cleared his mind.

" _Kaiis_ ," he whispered, softly. _Rest now._

The power retreated into the earth, the basin draining completely, and it pulled him down with it. Kael'thas swayed on his feet, then fell, darkness closing over him, eager and hungry.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We talk a little bit about Kael's parents, and about the Cult.
> 
> Also, Kael is in an even worse situation than he thinks.

When Kael'thas woke up, he was in a proper bed, half supported by a pile of pillows and draped in a silk sheet. The air was far too cool, but it was easy to imagine he was in Dalaran, or in one of the royal estates on Quel'thalas. That the past years had been nothing but a terrible dream.

His vision was blurry and his head throbbed, and for a time, he lay there, wondering where he was and trying to clear it. He shifted a little, and began a breathing exercise, to keep himself calm.

The last thing he recalled was stepping into the Sunwell basin and disabling the power output, and Kael'thas wondered if he had fainted from stress. He reached up to touch his aching head and felt a neat line of stitches behind one ear. Panic rose in his throat as he ran his fingers along it and followed it to the back of his skull.

 _What happened?_ he thought. _What did Arthas do to me?_

In disgust, he pulled his fingers away and tried to rise, pushing at the blankets. Across the room, he heard something scrape and the sound of footfalls approaching. Blurry shapes dominated his vision, but when the figure came closer, Kael'thas could recognize it as Dorozhand. The deathknight put one hand on his chest, and pushed him back down against the bed.

"He put something in my head!" Kael'thas blurted the words out, wishing immediately that he didn't sound so frightened. "He cut me open!"

"Kael'thas," said Dorozhand, "there's nothing in your head. You fell. You cut yourself on the tiles. We had to bring a healer."

He grabbed at Dorozhand's arms, the deathknight wasn't wearing his armor, and Kael'thas wondered how much time had passed.

"A healer?" Kael'thas narrowed his eyes, trying once again to clear his vision. He didn't allow himself to believe Dorozhand, not completely. After all, the deathknight could _claim_ anything he wanted. "Where am I? Where's Arthas?"

"A priest from the Cult," said Dorozhand, he eased Kael'thas back down and shook him loose, gently. "At the estate. He's with Abigial and the others. Try to stay calm, you were far too weak to be moved."

"The estate...?" Kael'thas asked, he strained, trying to look around. "In Quel'danas? Is this--"

"You aren't in your parents' rooms," Dorozhand assured him. "You're in my old room."

"Your... room?" Kael'thas squinted at him.

"I was their lead bodyguard, Kael'thas. Where did you imagine I lived, if not on their estate?"

Kael'thas didn't answer. Instead, he sank back against the pillows, panic, worry, and fear draining out him until all he felt was exhaustion. He closed his eyes, and focused on breathing. If the physician had put something inside him, a foreign object should be simple enough to sense, even with the collar disrupting his magic. He felt nothing other than the dull ache of the freshly closed wound, but it was impossible to wholly escape his paranoia. 

"I fell," he asked Dorozhand, who still stood above him, "and I cut my head on the tiles?"

"Yes," said the deathknight. 

"How long did it take for Arthas to come looking for me, then?" Kael'thas opened his eyes. "I told him not to enter the chamber."

Dorozhand chuckled. "Four, perhaps five whole minutes."

"What a remarkable show of restraint."

"For him, it truly was."

Kael'thas reached up to touch the line of stitches again, then withdrew his hand. "I suppose he expects to see me, now that I'm awake?"

In response, Dorozhand left his side. Kael'thas heard the deathknight's footfalls and the scrape of a chair as Dorozhand moved one to his bedside and sat in it. 

"He does," the deathknight said, "but first you and I are going to have a little talk."

"I can't imagine what you've decided we're going to talk _about_ , Dorozhand." Kael'thas tilted his chin up, just slightly, and gestured around himself, to everything. "I said I don't blame you for this, what else do you believe exists between us?"

"Why didn't you use the Sunwell to heal yourself?"

 _He knew. Damn it all_. Kael'thas frowned. "I never considered it, there was virtually no power left. Taking what remained would have destroyed it."

"You didn't think about what he's going to do to us when--"

"I thought about killing you all for far longer than I thought about trying to save myself--"

"You're sick," Dorozhand snapped, his voice edged and cold, like the deathknight himself. 

"I won't stand to be lectured on the subject of morality by one of the Lich King's murderers--"

"No, Kael'thas, I mean you're literally _sick_." Dorozhand glared at him. "You're withering. I drew you that map so you could save yourself, not so that you could do... whatever foolish thing it is that you did."

"You've learned a harsh lesson about being more forthright with your intentions, then."

"We'll _all_ be punished when you die, do you understand that?" Dorozhand rubbed his face with one hand in frustration, the way a living man would. "Were you planning on telling him, or did you want it to be a surprise when you dropped dead?"

"The latter, and I don't see why he needs me at all," Kael'thas said, even as he thought of the conspiracy and wondered what Dorozhand's stake in it was. "I'm not a woman, Arthas can't have children, and even if that _weren't_ the case, an immortal king has no need for heirs."

"Did it ever occur to you that he might care for you?"

"Not even momentarily."

"Kael'thas--" Dorozhand's tone was sharp, like an annoyed parent, or so Kael'thas assumed. It wasn't like he would know.

"Dorozhand." Kael'thas cut him off, locking eyes with the deathknight and glaring at him. "Silvermoon is in ruins, abandoned. The Sunwell is gone, and Arthas murdered every healer who might have been able to help me."

"So then, how long until...?"

"Long enough that I'm going to wish it were shorter. Withering isn't a quick death." Kael'thas looked down at his hands, which were still skeletal and frail. He tried to determine if they had somehow gotten worse while he'd been unconscious. Arthas was probably expecting his captive's appearance to change for the better, now that Kael'thas was living in better conditions. "Are you going to tell him?"

"No," said Dorozhand, "but he's not an idiot. He's going to figure it out."

Kael'thas lay back against the pillows and closed his eyes. He saw red blotches and swirling afterimages behind his eyelids, and even their short conversation had aggravated the throbbing in his skull. He felt himself drifting away, and he thought he heard Dorozhand say something, perhaps that the deathknight was going to fetch the doctor, and then, mercifully, he was unconscious again.

*** *** ***

How long he slept this time, Kael'thas wasn't sure, when he woke, everything still ached, but his vision was clearer.

Dorozhand was still here, sitting across the room, his feet propped up on a table, reading a book. Kael'thas was relieved it wasn't Arthas, but then again, the Lich King was probably too busy for bedside vigils.

This time around, Dorozhand had a companion. A human woman - a girl, really - sat at the table opposite him, her hands folded in her lap. To Kael'thas, she seemed unremarkable. She wore a simple dress of black cloth and her wispy, light-brown hair was pinned back. He would have guessed she was in her early teens, perhaps a bit younger. Like the women who had been serving food, she looked quelled and subservient, and he wondered where she had come from.

When Dorozhand noticed he was awake, he rose, taking a glass of blue liquid from the dresser. He snapped his fingers at the human and she rose, following him.

"Please tell me this isn't the doctor," Kael'thas said, watching them approach.

"It's not," said Dorozhand. He handed the glass to the girl. "Drink half of that. Swallow, don't hold any of it in your mouth."

She complied immediately, never raising her eyes. When she had finished, Dorozhand took the glass from her and held it out to Kael'thas.

"Your turn," he said.

Kael'thas eyed the glass and the liquid warily. "What is it?" he asked.

"Painkillers. Cobalt nettle extract. Powered joyroot. It's medicine."

"Do you like drugging children, Dorozhand?"

"About as much as I like fighting about whether or not something is poisonous," the deathknight admitted. "Drink it."

Kael'thas sensed he wasn't going to win this fight, and he took the glass in one hand. The shaking wasn't so bad that he couldn't lift it to his lips, and he tipped it back, downing the rest of the contents. It was thicker than water, and it tasted terrible. The way medicine typically was, if he was being honest. It made him feel pleasant and warm, the dull ache retreated from his skull, though the sharper pain of the stitches remained.

"That will be all," Dorozhand said, nodding to the girl. "Go into the other room and sleep it off."

She drew her shoulders in, bowing deeply, and left them alone.

"Who is she?" Kael'thas asked.

"She's from the Cult," Dorozhand said. "A Recanter."

"Is that supposed to be a meaningful designation to me?"

"I suppose not." Dorozhand chuckled. "The Recanters are all those who initially rejected the Scourge when a Cult recruiter approached them, or those who joined the Scourge after the fall."

"Good for them," Kael'thas muttered. "What changed?"

"The fall of Lordaeron, for one." The deathknight shrugged. "Thousands of the survivors, anyone who couldn't flee the country really, tried to flock to the Scourge banners to save themselves. Some of them claimed they had always been loyalists, others that they were willing to accept Arthas as their King now."

"...and what," Kael'thas asked, "you took them in? Out of the goodness in your hearts?"

"Not exactly," Dorozhand said. "They're the lowest members of the Cult. They handle tasks too complicated for the mindless undead, but too menial or humiliating for Scourge loyalists."

"There's a word for that, you know." Kael'thas narrowed his eyes. "And it's 'slavery'."

Dorozhand shrugged, nonchalant. "They had their chance."

"For fuck's sake, Dorozhand. You were a _paladin_."

"I suppose I was," he said. "Do you think you can walk? I want to show you something."

*** *** ***

As it turned out, Kael'thas could walk, as long as he went slowly. The drugs helped, and they affected him differently than they would a human. Dorozhand walked next to him, keeping pace patiently. Kael'thas feared that Arthas was on the estate, he didn't want the human going through his parents' things, but the deathknight assured him that the Lich King was elsewhere. For a time, he wandered the grounds with Dorozhand, curious about everything, but trying not to ask questions and listening to the rain.

The estate was shabby and in poor repair, but since the Scourge had ignored it, it was still intact, if suffering from years of neglect. The gardens were alternately overgrown or grey with death, depending on whether the irrigation systems were intermittent or not. In places, unprotected windows or atriums had been shattered, and weather had raged into the rooms behind them, spoiling the carpeting and rotting the furniture. There had been no need for shutters previously, it was always summer in Quel'thalas, and rain was for farmers.

Kael'thas had never returned to the estate after he had been taken to Silvermoon as an infant, but as far as he could tell, the estate hadn't been looted, though some of the statuary and art installations were badly damaged. Oddly enough, compared to the buildings on the Plateau, these were all minor complaints. With enough resources, it could be repaired.

"What did you want to show me?" Kael'thas asked.

"The royal quarters," Dorozhand said, he gestured with his head. "They're this way."

"I..." He began, but Kael'thas' throat clenched, and his heart felt heavy. "No."

"As you like." Dorozhand shrugged. "But you have to realize you're never coming back, this is your last chance."

He was right, wasn't he? Kael'thas sighed, drawing his arms around himself. "Fine," he said, "show me."

Dorozhand nodded, taking him by the arm leading him gently, as though the deathknight was worried the Prince in exile would lose his nerve. Kael'thas was almost grateful for it, because he might have.

The doors to the royal apartments were made of gold-inlaid wood, not entirely unlike the ones to the Sunwell Chamber, though the remains of those ones had been covered in arcane sigils and these bore the Sunstrider phoenix crest. Kael'thas reached out to touch the metal, half expecting it to be warm. He tried the handle, and found it unlocked.

"This is where she died?" Kael'thas asked.

"Try not to think of it that way," Dorozhand said, "but yes."

"Did you..." Kael'thas held the handle, and searched for the right words as the deathknight watched him critically. He didn't find them, so he let it drop, turning the handle all the way and opening the door.

It was...

If he was being honest with himself, it was just some rooms, and Kael'thas stepped inside and looked around. None of the windows had been blown out, and the curtains were drawn, so the light was dim. He was in a recreational room, where he guessed his parents had entertained guests. There was a low table, for serving food and other tables made for games. They looked elaborate and expensive, and in one corner, there was a glass and crystal Gateway board that must have come from Gilneas, since it didn't look elven in the slightest. There were even a few human Chess sets, one from Lordaeron and another that looked like the Stormwind variant.

Kael'thas wondered if his parents had had human friends. He smiled a little. The Isolationists would have thrown a fit.

"Dorozhand," Kael'thas asked, "did my parents play Chess?"

"Your mother did," said the deathknight.

"Which--"

"The Stormwind variant. It's... far more complicated, and the rules are more punishing." He pointed. "That was a gift, from one of Varian's ancestors."

Kael'thas went to the board, which was still set up, as though someone had been getting ready to play. The pieces were made of carved stone and had been worn down by time, many of the finer details lost. He reached out to touch it, and then withdraw his hand. _No_ , he decided. He had feared encountering his mother's ghost, but now that he had, she seemed friendly. It emboldened him.

Instead of touching, he opened the drawers of the table it was resting on. There were decks of cards, scattered polyhedral dice, scorekeeping notebooks, even a few gold writing pens, the ink long since dried up. In the back of one of the drawers was a book of Chess strategies. The pages were yellowed and cracking from age and overuse, and Kael'thas took it and flipped through it. Inside the cover, _for Laienne_ had been written in Stormwind's dialect, the same language as the book's script.

A combination of distance and lack of practice meant it was a language Kael'thas had trouble with, though humans liked to claim the Common dialects were not all _that_ different from each other. The last time he had needed to speak it had been at Varian Wrynn's wedding, well over a decade ago, and Voren'thal had been there to coach him.

"My mother spoke the Southern human dialect?" Kael'thas asked.

Dorozhand chuckled. "The Queen spoke _eleven_ languages, Kael'thas. She was passable in at least two dozen more."

Kael'thas closed the book and set it on the table. He wondered if he could keep it, or if he was willing to risk Arthas or one of the Lich King's minions taking it from him. He wondered if it was stealing from the dead. "I want to see the rest," he said.

"By all means." Dorozhand gestured. "Take your time, but don't linger."

One of the doors led to a private eating room, albeit one large enough to entertain guests. Unlike the one back in Icecrown, this one had a proper table, low to the ground, with piles of lounging pillows surrounding it in lieu of chairs. Kael'thas went the serving area and opened the cabinets, looking through them. None of the fresh food had been stored here, but even so, the spices and teas had all gone bad, and the stale scent was heavy in the air.

"Which--" he began again, and Dorozhand pointed again.

Kael'thas took the container he pointed to and twisted the lid free. He recognized the contents, even as dilapidated as they were. Rose tea.

"She liked rose tea?" Kael'thas looked back to Dorozhand.

The deathknight nodded. 

They went through each of the rooms like that, Kael'thas exploring with the deathknight following behind and speaking only when prompted. He came to the doors to the bedroom, and hesitated only a moment before going inside. 

As before, the place he had built up so much in his mind turned out to just be a room. The bed was neatly arranged, and it made Kael'thas wonder if his father had actually been living here. There was nothing spectacular about the furniture, a writing desk, a stand of drawers, a few pieces of art. 

There was a shelf with--

Kael'thas blinked and took a step closer, looking at the tiny objects there. They were tiny statues of statues of clay, though some were metal or wood. All of them of equally poor craftsmanship.

"Dorozhand, are these... human knickknacks?"

Dorozhand chuckled, nodding.

Kael'thas cringed. "They're... they're _hideous_. They're the worst things I've ever seen. Did they belong to my parents? Why are they _here_?"

"Your father used to buy them for the Queen when he was out adventuring." Dorozhand crossed his arms. 

"What?!" Kael'thas whirled around. "You're lying. That's--" he sputtered. "This one is a frog smoking a joint!"

"They're such terrible pieces of shit," Dorozhand said, chuckling, "she loved them so much."

Again, Kael'thas reached out to touch, and again, he changed his mind. "My father was an adventurer?"

"It was a long time ago," said Dorozhand. "Even for elves."

"Dorozhand," he asked, the words he'd lost before coming to him now, "did you love my mother?"

"Everyone loved the Queen."

"...but did you...?"

"Not like in the scenario you're no doubt crafting your head."

"What a stunningly profound disappointment I must have been." Kael'thas sighed. "The spare that no one needed or wanted."

"It's a sin, Kael'thas," said Dorozhand.

"Don't lecture me about sin, deathknight."

"To love the dead more than the living," Dorozhand continued, utterly undeterred. "...but Arthas is waiting."

 _My mother played Chess and liked rose tea and collected idiotic human knickknacks_ , Kael'thas thought. It was the closest he had ever come to knowing her, and he drew his hands back from the shelf, not sure if he should feel melancholy or grateful.

"Fine," said Kael'thas. "Take me to him, I'm ready."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that 'withering' is a term used exclusively in Legion by the Nightborne, but there's not really a Blood Elf equivalent and they seem to go through a similar process - calling themselves 'Wretched' instead of 'Withered', so I've decided to borrow it here.


	6. Chapter 6

Before they left, Kael'thas retrieved the strategy book. He flipped through it again, looking over the yellowed, cracked pages.

"Can you keep this safe?" he asked Dorozhand.

"If Arthas asks for it," the deathknight said, "I can't keep it from him."

"Fair enough." Kael'thas handed it to him. "I want to bring it with me. I... need to keep my mind busy."

Dorozhand took the book and nodded, tucking it inside his jacket. Gripping Kael'thas by the arm, the deathknight led him outside, and the captive Prince was even less prepared for what awaited there than he had been to see his parents' things.

Arthas had brought the entire Scourge army here to secure the island.

Well, no. That would have been absurd. The _entire_ Scourge army was almost too big enough to conceive of, numbering in what was perhaps the millions. There were merely several thousand of them here, with a Necropolis floating silently above them, its lights piercing eerily through the rain and fog. It was night, and Kael'thas decided that he was glad he had seen his parents' things, since he had lost his last chance to see the sun. How long had he been asleep, he wondered, drifting in and out of consciousness while the Scourge mobilized.

He might once have been furious with their presence here, but the Sunwell was quiescent now. It was asleep in the earth, far from Arthas' reach. Quel'danas was just an island, and Kael'thas allowed himself to be brought before the Lich King without complaint. Arthas waited in a building that looked like it had been at least partially conjured. Abigail was with him, along with two mages. Kael'thas didn't recognize either of them, though they were both undead. It sounded as though they were arguing as they stood around a table covered in maps, though Kael'thas had difficultly imagining Arthas' minions trying to gainsay their liege.

They stopped speaking as Kael'thas and Dorozhand approached, and Arthas turned to him.

"Kael," he said. "Feeling better?"

"Not really," Kael'thas said, "but it's time to leave."

"I agree," Abigail said, stalking out from behind the table and glancing at Arthas. "This is an... unacceptable show of force outside of Northrend. We have to pull up and return to Icecrown."

 _An unacceptable show of force?_ Kael'thas frowned at that. _Why were the Scourge in hiding?_

No, wait, it wasn't that difficult to understand. If there was truly a war going on between the Alliance and the Horde, the presence of the Scourge would only serve to unite and galvanize them. Better to allow the two world superpowers to duke it out until they exhausted themselves, since every victim of the war would become one of Arthas' soldiers, and the longer it dragged out, the more men and women would turn to the Cult out of despair.

Kael'thas felt ill, and if not for the drugs, he might have lost his grip on his balance.

 _Who knew?_ , he wondered, but quickly, he realized the answer was, 'no one'. Garithos and the Lordaeron Remnant believed that Arthas had been assassinated, or that he had fled into exile in the empty wastes of Northrend. Kael'thas briefly considered what had happened to the human general, but found he didn't care all that much.

Illidan had only known because the Nathrezim had tried to coerce him into cleaning up their mess, and he was trapped in Outland, along with Vashj, Kael'thas' lieutenants, and the rest of the Sunfury army. Even if they made it back somehow, they had all been branded traitors and infernalists. No one would believe them.

"Now that Kael'thas can travel," said Arthas, "we will."

The Lich King offered his arm, and while Kael'thas might have leapt at any opportunity to bicker with him in private, he didn't dare embarrass his captor in public. This was politics, and Kael'thas got the message. He stepped from Dorozhand's side and took Arthas' arm, steadying himself and allowing Arthas to lead him towards the Necropolis as it descended. 

"Despite the concern your generals are expressing," said Kael'thas, "I appreciate the effort."

Arthas smiled thinly. "No you don't."

"Think what you want," Kael'thas said, tilting his chin up. "It's still good to be wanted."

"What's good is that you realize that I'll allow no one to take you from me."

 _Do as you like_ , thought Kael'thas, almost wishing he had manage to injure himself more severely. _You can't hide forever. Someday, someone will be watching_.

They went up the ramp together, Abigail following, with Dorozhand at her side. The former Well-Watcher must have been higher in the Lich King's esteem than just the most appropriate bodyguard for Kael'thas, if he stood beside the Highlord. Next came the other deathknights and prominent cultists, and finally the mindless ones, swarming up over the edifice of the hovering citadel, packing themselves into the crypts at its nadir.

Arthas took him to a room, not nearly so ostentatious as the apartments in Icecrown, though Kael'thas suspected it was the best room available aboard the Necropolis. At the first opportunity, he sank down into one of the chairs, holding his head in one hand. He felt narrow, hollowed out. If it was because of what he had done to the Sunwell or because he was withering, he wasn't sure. Surely mortals couldn't feel like this all the time.

"I'll get the doctor," Arthas said.

"I'm fine," Kael'thas protested. "Just... sit with me for a minute, in case I faint again."

Arthas didn't sit, but he stood a few feet away, watching. "You were so much stronger, before."

"I was a lot of things, Arthas." Kael'thas glanced up at him. "I have a head injury, that's all it is."

Arthas gazed down at him, and he opened his mouth to speak.

"I told you not to come into the chamber," Kael'thas said before the Lich King could comment.

"You also told me you were going to stay with me." Arthas shrugged. "I want you to take a look at something."

He took a scroll case from his belt and passed it Kael'thas, who took it and pried the lid off, tipping the contents out into his hand. It was a few long scripts of paper, covered in runes. Kael'thas recognized them immediately as portal readings, and his shaky fingers traced the glyphs as he scanned them.

"Do you need someone to help you translate--" Arthas began.

"No."

"I mean, you don't have your magic, and other mages need it to read--"

Kael'thas looked up at his captor, his eyes flashing. "Arthas, I don't know how to describe myself in comparison to them without using the word 'better'. What do you want me to tell you about these?"

"Kel'thuzad said that's why we ended up on the coast."

"Nikolai Kelthis is a lying sack of shit," Kael'thas said.

"There's something in the readings?"

"No," said Kael'thas, unfurling one of the other pages, and then the next. "I just meant that as a general observation. These seem like they're more or less in order. Output from the arrival site disrupted the portal. Accidents happen."

"Accidents happen?" Arthas raised an eyebrow.

"Can't you just--" Kael'thas gestured with one hand. "Force him to give you an answer? Use Frostmourne to do whatever you want?"

"It doesn't work like that," Arthas said. "Unless they're mindless."

"What a shame, since we're trying to root out a conspiracy." Kael'thas rolled the papers up and replaced them. "I need someone to teach me necromantic theory, and when we get home, I want to meet all the deathknights you trust."

Arthas was silent for a moment. "Home?" he asked.

"I hope you heard the rest of that." Kael'thas gazed up at him, raising en eyebrow. "Is there another word you'd prefer I use?"

"No." The Lich King smiled, if only barely. "There isn't."

*** *** ***

They were taking the long way back, and Kael'thas wasn't entirely surprised. Portals consumed an inordinate amount of magical resources, were pitifully easy to sense if you knew what to look for, and could be dangerous if they weren't opened within prepared launch and arrival sites. He doubted that anyone was watching Quel'danas, but Arthas' generals wouldn't take the risk.

He stayed in Arthas' rooms on the Necropolis as it carried them across the ocean, though the Lich King rarely visited him. Kael'thas saw more of Dorozhand and doctors than he did of Arthas and he was grateful for it. After the third day, he stopped drinking the painkillers. It was frighteningly easy to become dependent when you were withering, and he spent the first night without them curled into a tight ball in Arthas' bed, caught in the thrall of a migraine so severe that it temporarily blinded him.

When the Cultists brought him food, he tried to eat without complaint, not wanting them to punished for his lack of compliance, though he was rarely able to finish a meal. Sometimes he went for walks, usually escorted by Dorozhand or with another deathknight following him at a distance. The guards served absolutely no purpose. Arthas' bedroom had a balcony, and Kael'thas was apparently free to jump from it whenever he liked.

He didn't. He spent most of his time thinking of how he might get a message to the Alliance. Or rather, to Jaina specifically, the only one who might actually _believe_ him. 

Dalaran had once hosted a semi-global communication network, part magic and part technology. Like the steam trains, it was one of the great wonders of the modern age. The Isolationists in Quel'thalas had scoffed at it, but Kael'thas had been nothing less than impressed when it been brought online and a message of clicks and beeps had been sent to Ironforge in a matter of moments.

Humanity had such an adventurous spirit, it constantly left him in awe.

Of course, the central tower was laying in ruins at the bottom of a crater and the rest of the network had collapsed due to uncontrolled cascade failure. 

Kael'thas would have been buried in the rubble of Dalaran alongside it had the Senate not summoned him and Voren'thal back to Quel'thalas after Arthas attacked Silvermoon. He had only barely missed the cataclysm, and virtually the entire population of the city-state had been wiped out.

...but the salient point that was that he couldn't simply _call_ Jaina.

Even if he managed to sabotage the collar somehow, magical communication had a distressingly short range. It wasn't continental. Not to mention that he would have to know where she _was_.

Kalimdor? He had heard she escaped Lordaeron with the other survivors and headed west by sea. Stormwind? Other than himself and a handful of others, she was one of the last living sorcerers, and Varian would sorely need her advice and counsel. Kul Tiras? It lay close enough to Lordaeron that it might be a target of the Scourge, and Jaina could have gone there to assist her father and reinforce the islands. Perhaps Arthas knew where she was, but it was impossible to justify drawing the Lich King's attention to her. 

He wondered if he might win over someone from the Cult of the Damned. The upper echelons were religious fanatics, and Kael'thas dismissed them out of hand, but the Recanters were lowly and poorly treated. It wasn't hard to imagine that one of them might want revenge on their captors and masters. 

There were two problems with that. The first was that he was yet to see the same slave twice. Dorozhand or another deathknight had already considered this, and the ones who served his food or cleaned Arthas' rooms were being rotated through a cycle. The second was that even if he _could_ win one of them over, what then? How would his theoretical ally escape Icecrown and reach the Eastern Kingdoms? If Dorozhand was to be believed, the natives of Northrend had all bent knee to the Lich King, and there lay no safe haven between the glacier and the sea. 

Distraught over his helplessness, Kael'thas rolled out of the bed and walked to the balcony, watching the black surface of the ocean churn below him and alternatively gazing at the stormclouds in the distance. Pacing on the balcony would have been pointless, so he decided to go for a walk. The halls were far more suited to the sort of brooding he was in the mood for.

A pair of deathknights moved to follow him at a respectful distance as he walked, and Kael'thas ignored them except to note that they were both human. Most of Arthas' chief minions were human, but that made sense. The vast majority of the Scourge had been culled from Lordaeron, whose population was almost entirely human. Perhaps the rest had come from Quel'thalas and Dalaran, and Arthas had moved them somewhere they wouldn't distress his captive.

Then again, far more civilians had escaped Quel'thalas than Kael'thas had initially believed. The Scourge hadn't come to his country to take captives, they had come for the Sunwell, so perhaps there were no elves languishing in slavery here. Along with the Sunfury army, Kael'thas had delivered all of the civilians he'd been able to locate to the ships on the coast, with the promise that he would join them in Stormwind after he had assisted the Lordaeron Remnant.

He sighed to himself. Just look how _that_ had ended up--

" _Atamir Kael'thas!_ "

 _Prince Kael'thas_. The voice startled him, and he looked up to find Liera coming up the hallway. Once again, he wondered how strong the dead were, because she seemed nearly unencumbered by her armor and she walked with a light step.

" _Ahlatuya saileshi--_ " she went on, but Kael'thas held up one hand, to interrupt. _Are you feeling better--_

"In Lordaeron's dialect," he said, "and there's no need to use my title anymore, Liera. You can speak to me freely if you like, as though I were any other man."

Liera's expression was so hurt and so disappointed that Kael'thas thought it bordered on the look of someone who had been betrayed. He wondered if he had been that harsh, and he recalled her crying jag. Was she alright? He didn't discount the thought that she might be mentally unstable. He had heard stories about the excesses of Arthas' minions, but the other two deathknights didn't seem concerned and they stood a short distance off.

"I'm sorry," he said, "are you--"

"Fine," she said, and she seemed to compose herself. She drew herself up and squared her shoulders. "I killed two demons. The big ones. Quel'danas."

Liera had an atrocious accent for the Common dialect, but that was to be expected. She had lived on Quel'danas since she was three years old, and her House had been hard-line Isolationists. Arthas was probably the first human she'd ever seen outside of a racist propaganda leaflet. Kael'thas felt bad for ordering her to speak Lordaeron's language, but better now than having to do it in front of the Lich King and making her a target of Arthas' annoyance. Kael'thas could manage just fine with it focused on him, he didn't know if Liera could.

"I'm happy, Liera," he said, "but you shouldn't put yourself at risk without cause. I know you were one of the island's protectors, but if you're killed, you won't be able to go back..."

He trailed off, watching her expression steadily collapse again. _Did she understand?_ he wondered. Perhaps he sould rephrase.

It turned out he didn't get the chance, because Liera turned sharply and walked away, leaving him to wonder what had just happened.

*** *** ***

The morning they arrived back on the glacier, a physician had carefully removed the stitches and declared Kael'thas healthy, such as it were. 

Standing on the balcony of the Necropolis as it coasted over the continent, Kael'thas got his first view of Icecrown from the air, and the Lich King's stronghold was even more impressive than it had seemed at ground level. Three massive gates secured the foot of the glacier and the most obvious approaches, utterly dominating the landscape. Each gate was shaped from the strange, warped black metal, and easily stood the height of Stormwind Keep. 

There were at least two outlying fortresses, flying Scourge banners from their buttresses. Kael'thas wondered if they were home to deathknights not important or privileged enough to live within Icecrown Citadel itself, or if those deathknights held highest in the Lich King's esteem were given their own holdings, the way a King might parcel out land to his lords. In the distance, Kael'thas caught a glimpse of the blue-black smoke belched out by human factories and forges, but he couldn't make out the buildings themselves. Along the floor of the glacier, he saw quarries and the yawning entrances of mines, the black specks of mindless undead as they swarmed in and out. Arthas had been busy, and Kael'thas despaired at the thought of even a united force trying to launch an assault.

When they disembarked, Arthas walked Kael'thas to his rooms, opening the door for him. Kael'thas watched carefully, noting the lack of delay. Whatever spell that locked it seemed to function without maintenance, there was no one monitoring it. Relevant.

"I thought I might stay," Arthas said, amicably enough, and Kael'thas felt his heart clench. 

He could refuse, of course, that was why the Lich King had not simply demanded or threatened. Then, the next thing he asked of Arthas would be refused in turn. The message was simple, but clear; Kael'thas had crossed a bridge, it was time to pay the toll. 

"Of course," Kael'thas said. "Come in."

As if he could stop Arthas from coming or going as he pleased.

Arthas followed him inside, closing the door, looking about as though he had never seen the apartments before. "Would you... like to have a meal together?" he asked. 

_No_ , thought Kael'thas. _I want you to get this over with and be done with me_. 

"There's no need for us to endure socializing with each other, Arthas," Kael'thas said, deciding that was a better choice of words. 

A smile tugged at the Lich King's lips, and Kael'thas loathed it. It made Arthas look more human, and that was intolerable. "Were you happier with Illidan?"

"I don't know," Kael'thas retorted, "were you kinder to Jaina?"

Immediately, he regretted saying it. Arthas' expression shadowed, and Kael'thas prayed silently that he hadn't drawn the other man's gaze to her.

"I don't want to talk about Jaina," Arthas said, his tone dark.

"Well, I don't want to talk about Illidan," Kael'thas said, keeping _his_ tone haughty, "so let's make that a rule."

"Fine." Arthas glanced towards the dining area. "You're sure you wouldn't rather sit together for a while?"

"I'm sure," said Kael'thas. "You're going to have to take that armor off, you know."

"That occurred to me, thank you." Arthas rolled his eyes, but he swept off his cape and laid it over one of the chairs. 

Kael'thas watched him as he removed his armor and set each piece carefully aside. Arthas, though bigger than he was, was still much smaller than Illidan. Much closer, if Kael'thas was being honest with himself, to his range of comfort. Comparing the two seemed pointless, and yet, Kael'thas felt at a loss for someone else to compare Arthas to. 

"Have you ever been with a man before?" Kael'thas asked. 

"No." Beneath his armor, Arthas wore clothing of simple black and dark blue. Not entirely different from what his deathknights wore when they were at rest, and like it was with them, it looked new enough. Arthas was tall for a human, and far more muscular than any Blood Elf, even without his armor he cut an imposing figure.

"It's not the same as being with a woman," Kael'thas said. 

"Believe it or not, Kael, that occurred to me too."

"Don't be a brat--"

Arthas crossed the room to him, footfalls echoing, and reached out, touching Kael'thas' lower lip. The human's hands were scarred and callused from combat training and working with animals when he'd been alive. His nails were cut short, unmanicured, and his fingers were blunt. It felt wrong somehow, and Kael'thas wondered how he'd gotten so used to claws.

"There's a scar here," Arthas said. "How did you get it?"

"I'm surprised you noticed." Kael'thas forced himself to stand still and let Arthas look him over, though he couldn't help rolling his eyes. "Did you spend a lot of time looking at my lips before you died?"

"Some," Arthas admitted.

"Illidan cut me," Kael'thas said. "With his fangs. An accident."

It was _almost_ funny to watch the urge to make a crass comment war it out with the promise not to talk about Illidan on Arthas' face, and Kael'thas smirked.

Not so much when Arthas' arms slid around his waist and the Lich King's lips closed over his, but later, he would distinctly remember smirking. Returning the kiss was impossible, and instead Kael'thas simply stood there, resting his own hands on Arthas' hips. Arthas wasn't as cold as Kael'thas had feared, though his lips tasted like that first painful breath on a winter's day. And thank the Light he seemed to be caught up in the moment of death and not actually _decomposing_ , otherwise Kael'thas doubted he'd be able to go through with it.

He pulled away after a moment, gasping for breath. "Show me your Frostmourne scar," he said.

Arthas peered at him. "What?"

"Your scar," Kael'thas said. "You asked about my scar and I told you. I want to see yours. If the blade marks everyone it kills, you must have one too."

For a moment, the Lich King hesitated, and then he moved back a little, holding out his right hand, the palm facing Kael'thas. Narrow blue scars crisscrossed the lines and calluses. _The pattern on the hilt_ , Kael'thas realized, and he took Arthas' hand, running his fingers over it. He wasn't a palm reader, but Voren'thal would have been in fits.

"That's a clever trap they set for you," he murmured. "It's not just the edge that's deadly."

"That's one way of putting it," Arthas said, jerking his hand away and returning it to Kael'thas' waist. "I don't want to discuss it, I want to go to bed with you."

Then there was no point delaying, and Kael'thas took Arthas' hand in his and led the Black God into the bedroom. The human bed was easily large enough for both of them, perhaps even ostentatious enough for three or four, and Kael'thas supposed it was because humans seemed to think a bed was the only appropriate surface for coupling. What mattered though, was that even if Arthas didn't leave afterwards, there would be no need to sleep next to him.

The Lich King sat on the bed, gazing up at him.

"Should I undress?" Kael'thas asked.

Arthas seemed to consider the question for far longer than necessary. "Take your shirt off," he said, at last.

Kael'thas complied, recalling Dorozhand's expression of discomfort with no show of outward displeasure. He undid the buttons of his shirt and slid it off his shoulders, letting it fall and wondering if he could learn to mimic it. Arthas' hands came up, fingers tracing over where the bones of Kael'thas' hips and ribs were showing. Without his shirt, the cool metal of the collar was impossible to ignore, though it was nearly weightless. Having his magic locked away made him feel even more helpless than he already was.

"Lay down," Arthas said, and Kael'thas did as he was told, moving to lay on the bed, opposite where the other man sat. He fixed his gaze on the carvings on one of the dressers, counting the leaves. "Look up at me."

Kael'thas didn't. "Why? Arthas, just get _on_ with it."

"Because you belong to me and because I say so." The Lich King's voice was stern, like he was a paladin giving orders.

With a sigh, Kael'thas turned his gaze back to his captor, looking at his shoulder, instead of his face. Arthas cupped his captive's cheek, stroking over it with one thumb. The left hand, Kael'thas noted, though he knew Arthas was right-handed.

"You're beautiful," Arthas said, fondly.

"I hate you," Kael'thas breathed out, in reply.

"That's fine, you allowed to." Arthas took him by the chin and guided his gaze up, until their eyes met. "...Kael'thas?"

" _What_?"

"Tell me what withering is."


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You had to know that the elven version of _memento mori_ was gonna be something like that.

Kael'thas' eyes widened, and he tried to pull away.

Arthas grabbed him, wielding him back down against the blankets, and Kael'thas clawed at his captor's arm. As it had been previously, it was pointless.

"...and not to raise the stakes or anything," said Arthas, casually, "but if your explanation isn't _exactly_ the same as Dorozhand's, I'm going to hurt him in ways you can't even imagine."

"Let go of me!"

"What? No." Arthas laughed, grabbing at him. "Where would you even _go?_ " 

"Arthas!" Kael'thas squirmed, and with his free hand, he grabbed the human by shoulder, trying to push him off. "You're such a bastard! How long did you intend to let that go on?!"

"Not much longer," the Lich King admitted. "I _asked_ if you wanted to talk over dinner, you're the one who said no. I'm still waiting for an explanation."

Kael'thas took a deep breath, staring up at Arthas, radiating with anger so strong that it bled into his auras. Even with the collar, he felt like he was glowing with it, and he tried to calm down. For Dorozhand's sake, at least. 

"Arthas--"

"Don't lie to me again, Kael."

"Arthas." Kael'thas tried again, and he rested his hand on the other man's shoulder instead of shoving at him. "A paladin and a sorcerer are going to have fundamentally different understandings of the condition."

Arthas rolled his eyes. "Quit stalling."

"Fine," Kael'thas snapped. "Withering causes mental and physical degeneration. I'm affected. Under these circumstances, it's fatal."

"Dorozhand--"

"Made those specific points, I'm sure." Kael'thas glowered up at Arthas. "I'm confident that matches his description exactly, if extremely sparingly. Did he run off and tell you moments after he promised me he wouldn't? The traitor."

"Pretty much, yes." Arthas frowned. "And technically--"

"You didn't specify about technicalities." Kael'thas tried to sit up again. "Arthas, get off me."

As though he seemed to realize what he was doing, Arthas moved back and Kael'thas sat up. He though about retrieving his shirt, but it seemed pointless.

"How did it start?" Arthas asked. "What triggered it?"

"Some bastard deathknight disrupted a portal I was channeling with his anti-magic field. When the feedback loop hit me, it was the arcane equivalent of being set on fire." Kael'thas leveled his gaze at Arthas, who looked somber, if that were possible.

"Dorozhand said it was treatable."

"He's right. It _was_ treatable, in Quel'thalas, with the resources there and the limitless power of the Sunwell at our disposal." Kael'thas shrugged. "Arthas, it takes time to die from withering. Long enough to wish it were shorter."

"You said you were going to stay with me," Arthas said. "Help me rule. Were you just going to hide it, until you dropped dead?"

"Don't act as though people dropping dead around you is still a shock." Kael'thas shrugged. "And I am going to stay with you. For the rest of my natural life, it looks like."

"How can you possibly be so flippant about this?!"

"How can you possibly care so much?" Kael'thas asked. "Arthas, whether I die in ten months, or ten years, or ten centuries, to _you_ , my absence is going to be perceived as the same amount of time."

Arthas stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Forever. You're immortal and I'm not. I'll pass from the world, but you won't." Kael'thas watched the Lich King's expression fall, saw the flicker of distress and fear there, and found it was impossible to resist turning the knife. "You'll be here, all alone, chained to that fucking sword. _Sa sula sal_ , Arthas Menethil."

Arthas exhaled sharply, then turned away, rose from the bed, and left.

*** *** ***

Well, no. It wasn't completely truthful to say that Arthas had _left_. Kael'thas didn't hear the sounds of him retrieving his armor, or the scrape of metal and ice from opening the door. He had gone, if the captive Prince was guessing correctly, out to the balcony to brood, and Kael'thas was determined not to go after him.

For a time, at least.

As he lay on the bed, the blankets crumpled from the struggle, he found he didn't feel triumphant. By all rights, he should, having finally gotten the upper hand and hurt Arthas. The Lich King deserved far worse, and Kael'thas had no intention of soothing his captor's hurt feelings. Surely, they had done and said worse to each other, and Arthas was throwing a tantrum over nothing.

Kael'thas pulled the blankets over himself and turned on his side, fully intending to go to sleep. Blessedly, thankfully, alone.

It didn't work. He was wide awake, and he lay there, his eyes open and his thoughts swirling.

There was more to say, he decided, so he pulled the heaviest blanket around his shoulders and went out to find the Lich King.

Arthas stood on the balcony, just as Kael'thas had guessed, the ruler of the continent gazed out over Northrend, his back to the passage.

"You know you killed me when you poisoned the Sunwell," Kael'thas said, stalking out to stand next to him. "The fact that you managed to aggravate my condition is meaningless. So stop being melodramatic. I was _already_ dying."

"That's... such a foolish way to think of it."

"How _else_ do you expect an elf to think of it, Arthas?" Under the blanket, Kael'thas crossed his arms. "This war you started has killed us, all of us. Perhaps not today or tomorrow, but our time in the sun is over."

"You could..." Arthas gestured with one hand. "It's not as though you can't have children."

"Others might, but it's harder, for my people. It's not as it is with humans." Kael'thas shrugged, and he pushed one hand out from under the blanket, to gesture to himself. "I can't. I'm ruined, now."

"You aren't ruined."

"Call it what you like, Arthas."

Arthas sighed. "How old are you?"

"Not that I ever celebrate my birthday, but six hundred and thirty-three." Kael'thas rolled his eyes. "Very young, for an elf."

Arthas turned, and Kael'thas felt the Lich King's gaze on him. "How long will you live, now that you aren't immortal?"

"I don't know," Kael'thas said. He didn't return the gaze, or move to face Arthas. "Perhaps, as far as universal accounting is concerned, it's already been too long. I'm trying to accept it with grace."

Arthas huffed. "You're trying to hurt me."

"Well, I hope it's working."

"I could make you a lich," Arthas said, and he put his hands on Kael'thas' shoulders, turning him. "You would be immortal again, after a fashion."

"It won't work on me," Kael'thas said, "because of Al'ar. You know that. My familiar and I share powers. When I die, there'll be nothing left but ashes, and elementals don't linger as ghosts. You can have me while I'm alive, Arthas, but I won't be your slave in death."

"Then I'll find you a healer." Arthas cupped his cheek, drew him closer.

"Drag it out if you like," Kael'thas said, allowing himself to be moved. "Wasted efforts. In the end, it'll all be the same to you."

"What was it what you said to me? _Sa sula sal?_ " Arthas mangled the pronunciation, he lacked the grace required for Thalassian.

"There's no true translation," said Kael'thas. "It's... an admonishment not to love those things that are fleeting."

"I've hardly amassed all this power not to do as I please, Kael."

"You are such an arrogant bastard, Arthas." Kael'thas shook the other man's hand loose. "I'm not finished being angry with you."

"That's a shame," Arthas said, "because I want to go back to bed."

"I don't," Kael'thas said, feeling emboldened to speak his mind. "At least, not with you."

"Not like that," he said. "I just want to have you nearby. In case you die tonight."

Kael'thas laughed bitterly. The idea of having to share a bed with Arthas had seemed like the very worst of it not even an hour ago. Now, the Lich King seemed so human, so very lost and alone in the mess he had himself created. Something very much like sympathy crept up on Kael'thas, and he squashed it down, disgusted with himself.

"Fine," Kael'thas said, at last, his tone clipped, and there was something else, too. "But don't presume to kiss me again. Ever."

"You didn't like it?"

Kael'thas snorted. "That would be putting it mildly."

*** *** ***

Arthas lay on the other side of the bed, on top of the blankets, but perhaps he didn't feel the cold anymore. He rested his hands on his stomach and gazed at the ceiling, so incredibly still, like a corpse. In the quiet of the bedroom, it was impossible to miss the fact that the man only drew breath when he was speaking. Kael'thas lay on the other side of the bed, on his side, facing away. With the edge gone from his anger, he felt tired again.

"Did you love Illidan?" Arthas asked, out of nowhere.

"We promised we weren't going to talk about him anymore," Kael'thas said.

"...but, did you?"

Kael'thas rubbed his face with one hand and broke his own promise. "Did you love Jaina?"

"Yes," Arthas answered, without hesitation.

"What about Calia?" Kael'thas propped himself up a little, and turned to face Arthas, who hadn't moved. "Your parents?"

"Yes," said Arthas, "and no."

"Uther?"

"Yes." He kept watching the ceiling, the patterns in the swirls of stone and ice. "What's the point of this?"

"The point," said Kael'thas, settling back down, "is that you know more about being in love than I do. What was it like?"

"Good," said Arthas.

"All the time?"

"No." Arthas glanced at him. "...but when things were good, they were better, and when things were bad, they weren't as bad."

"That's..." Kael'thas hesitated. "That's everything? That's all there is?"

"I think so."

"I wasn't in love with Illidan." It was the answer he had been going to give regardless, but now, Kael'thas worried it might the correct one. He thought back to the vial, and felt the weight of its chain around his neck. Illidan hadn't needed a collar or a locked door to keep him in captivity, he'd done it so much more artfully. The only way to really appreciate it was at a distance.

He hoped Voren'thal would do better than he had, though perhaps Voren'thal had forgotten about him too. Kael'thas tugged at a loose thread amidst the sheets, letting the silence linger for a time.

"Did Dorozhand tell you how an elf dies from withering?" he asked, finally.

"No," said Arthas.

"They don't," explained Kael'thas. "Not exactly. A victim of withering will... mentally and physically degrade until they're dangerous, both to themselves and others. Any coherent thought is replaced by hunger, for both flesh and magic. If the victim can't be treated, a dignified suicide before the deterioration reaches that point is, medically speaking, considered the best course of action, but it's not always possible."

"Why allow it to reach the point of total collapse?"

"Extenuating circumstances," Kael'thas said. "It's rare, but it happens. People live in isolated areas, they don't respond to treatment in the expected way, they hide their condition because they're pregnant with the Crown Prince."

Arthas turned, staring at him.

"What?" Kael'thas asked, raising an eyebrow. "Everyone knows I murdered her, it's not as if it was a secret."

"So, if it gets to that point...?"

Kael'thas smiled bitterly, and he drew a line across his throat, with one finger.

Arthas considered. "Who?"

"I don't know," Kael'thas said. "They never told me. Dorozhand, maybe. I don't know that my father had the strength."

He turned away, back onto his side, and arranged the blankets over himself again. Arthas was silent, and Kael'thas was grateful for it, because there was nothing else to be said. He let darkness close over him, and he slept.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's our second PoV character, he's terrible.

Somewhere, in the darkness above him, the deathknight heard a noise he recognized. Even after all this time, his instincts had not yet faded completely.

It was the light, almost unnoticeable tap of a hoof on stone.

Not a beast, but someone walking upright.

 _Impossible_ , he thought, but he gathered himself up and surged outwards, towards the edge of his prison, feeling the outermost barrier constrict and threaten. Drawing away from it, he faded back into the shadows, to watch.

He had thought that the planet had been scoured of life, but a draenei was coming down the stairs. She was young, and new, as though nothing were out of sorts with the world. Her skin was pale blue, and her horns swept back from her skull. Her white hair fell partly across her face, covering one eye. She was beautiful enough that warriors would have fought fiercely for her, had she been taken captive during the war, and the deathknight could not help but stare.

With her were three elves, and that was very curious.

Their leader had strange eyes, all blue, with stars swirling inside them, like the Eredar prophet, and the deathknight decided immediately that he disliked him. One was younger, with sleeve tattoos on both arms, done to serve his vanity and not as the marks or trophies of kills. The deathknight liked him even less. The last was a sorcerer, his face obscured by a mask, but the deathknight recognized the garb for what it was, even if the elf wore no longer wore an emblem as proof of his allegiance.

The Isolationists. This was the worst of the three, and he liked this one least.

"Teron Gorefiend," the draenei called, coming almost to the edge, close enough to touch, if not for the barrier. She spoke in the language of the orcs, though her voice was heavily accented. "These men have come a long way, and they would like very much to speak with you."

He weighed his options. It might be better not to speak, but curiosity burned at him.

If this draenei had survived, had others? How much of the planet had been spared Ner'zhul's hubris? Did anything remain? Perhaps if Nagrand had survived, it meant--

"What of it?" he asked, without coming closer.

The woman turned, saying something to the elves in a language he didn't understand. They spoke to her in turn, and Teron coiled around himself, watching and waiting.

"They want to see Ner'zhul's old things," she said. "His workshops, his dissection tables, his writings, his star charts."

"Tell them--" Teron chortled, the shadows roiling and twisting. "Translate this exactly, woman. Tell them they can suck my absurd human dick."

She sighed, as though she were long suffering, though they had only just met, and turned to the elves, speaking briefly. The youngest one burst out laughing and said something, accompanying the words with an obscene gesture. Teron's esteem for the elf climbed, if only barely. In a moment, she spoke again. "They say that they do not withdraw their request."

"Is that _all_ they said?" he asked.

"No, the one with the tattoos said to ask you to take off your pants."

Teron cackled. "I can't help them. There's nothing left, the planet was destroyed, Ner'zhul's 'old things' along with it."

She turned back to them, and they exchanged words once more. This time, at great length.

"Surely something has survived," she said.

"Again, that can't be _all_ that was said, draenei." Teron drew closer to the edge, and at this distance, he knew they could make out the edges of his form. "You can't honestly believe you're capable of hurting my feelings."

"They said that--" She paused, and then continued, "--that even a race of animals who speak the language of pigs must have written _something_ down, since one of you did all the groundwork of inventing necromancy from nothing. Also--" There was a pause. "--you can't just 'acquire infinity necromancy'. It must come from somewhere."

Teron considered. "Tell the one in the mask that I would have raped his mother when we invaded his country, save that it's impossible to force yourself on the willing."

She turned and spoke, and the elf hurled himself up from where he was leaning on the wall and stalked towards the edge of the barrier. Teron drew into himself, tensing to pounce, but the other two grabbed him and hauled him back. They were all shouting at each other incomprehensibly, and he chuckled. _So close_.

As they fought among themselves, he came as near to the edge as he dared.

"Draenei," he said, his tone low. "Do your kind yet live? Or is the last of the sky-people also the most beautiful?"

"They do." She gazed down at him, unimpressed, ignoring the rest.

"...and mine?"

"Yes."

"Where?"

"That is not for you," she said, shaking her head, "but we are leaving these shores."

"Then what do I care for these men?" Teron waved one hand and drew back, away from the edge. "Leave me. Others will carry on. You are meddling in things you can't possibly understand."

The elf with the star-eyes came to the draenei's side, and they spoke at length. She seemed to respect him more than the others, but her people had always followed prophets. The way his own people had followed shamans, and then, warlocks. He wondered if that was still the way of things, or if Doomhammer's purges had finally put an end to it.

"Teron," she called, after a time. "They tell me they're quite determined to see the source of necromancy. They want to know where Ner'zhul's power comes from."

He didn't answer.

"They say that Ner'zhul has escaped this place."

 _The bastard_. Of course he would have found a way to cheat death and damn them all. _The fucking bastard_.

"He has gone to their world, and he wields great power there. Neither of our peoples will be safe unless he can be stopped."

It was impossible to remain silent. "Do not presume to appeal to my better nature, draenei."

The elf with star-eyes came to her side and said something.

"Teron," she called out, "he says that if you do not want peace, perhaps you want revenge?"

*** *** ***

"Understand this," Kael'thas said. "I'm going to get this collar off somehow and then I'm going to fucking murder you."

"Come now, Prince Kael'thas," said Keleseth, he gripped Kael'thas' chin in one clawed hand, and tilted the captive Prince's head to one side, and then the other. "Considering the mess you're in, it's pointless to be difficult."

"I can be far more difficult than this." Kael'thas struck the other man's hand away. "Don't touch me."

Keleseth straightened, and turned, glancing back towards the Lich King. "Your majesty?"

"Kael'thas," said Arthas, who stood to one side, watching. "Stop being difficult."

"You said you would get a healer," Kael'thas said. "Not this deranged, blood-siphoning monster--"

"Keleseth assures me that he knows--"

"I don't want this traitor pawing at me." Kael'thas tilted his chin up. "How long were you in the Cult, Keleseth?"

"I won't apologize for acting to secure my place in the new world, Kael'thas." Keleseth returned his former Prince's haughty gaze. "And since _you're_ the one spreading your legs for our master, I hardly think you're all _that_ concerned about who paws at you."

" _Keleseth_." Arthas' tone was stern. "Keep your commentary related to medical matters."

"Of course, my liege." Keleseth bowed briefly to the Lich King and turned back to Kael'thas, who glared up at him.

Kael'thas sat on the bed, remaining as still as he could while the turncoat elf poured over him. He felt the prickle of magical senses, and while he wanted to complain, the san'layn remained strictly professional. He wondered how many more there were, and how deeply the Cult had spread into Quel'thalas. That there might have been Scourge loyalists among his own people was something he had never considered.

It made a certain amount of sense, he supposed. There would always be those who would take any approximation of immortality they could grasp at, and even among elvenkind, there was no shortage of those who wanted power. Perhaps they had seen the Scourge as a new beginning, a way to rise to the top of the world, unshackled by caste.

Cold fingers pushed against his throat as Keleseth took his pulse, and the san'layn tilted Kael'thas chin up, looking into his eyes and watching his reaction times. Then, the san'layn pressed at his body in places, looking for tumors or abscesses.

"I suppose the news is good," the fallen elf said, after a time. "He's in a very early stage, and if we begin a strict treatment regimen now, we could greatly delay--"

"I don't want you to _delay_ it," Arthas said. "I want you to cure him. You said he could be treated."

Keleseth pressed the claws of both hands together, at a loss. He looked down at Kael'thas, clearly expecting help.

At first, Kael'thas was determined not to give it, but there didn't seem to be any point in needlessly antagonizing the Lich King.

"Arthas," said Kael'thas. "Let's speak alone."

Something passed between Arthas and Keleseth, and the san'layn bowed, taking his leave.

"Any doctor you find is going to tell you the same thing," Kael'thas said.

Arthas stroked his chin, thinking. "In Kalimdor," he said, "there are elves as old as the world itself. Maybe they--"

"I know about the Night Elves, you dolt." Kael'thas rolled his eyes. "I was literally fucking one, just a few months ago. They aren't like us, they don't wither. None of them can help me, or would, if it were possible."

"There's the Church of the Light, in Stormwind. The paladins there, I could--"

"Attack the current seat of Alliance military might? Tip your hand to Varian?" Kael'thas asked. "Arthas, be reasonable."

Arthas glowered at him, and Kael'thas ignored it. With both hands, he pushed the blankets aside and rose from the bed. It was such a pointless charade, and being poked and prodded at by Scourge loyalists did little more than make him frustrated.

"What are you doing?" Arthas asked.

"I'm getting up," Kael'thas said. "I've grown sick of laying in your bed, pining and moping."

Arthas smirked. "You do make a very handsome tragic figure."

"Spare me."

"As if I would."

Rummaging amidst the twisted bedding, Kael'thas gripped the heaviest blanket and pulled it around his shoulders. "I want a meal," he said, "and I want to bathe, and after that, we have work to do, assuming you aren't busy with your plans for world domination."

"I am," said Arthas, "but I'll make time."

"About those deathknights you trust..." Kael'thas walked past Arthas, out into the main room and past the receiving area. He went into the bathing area and turned on the water, letting it run into the basin until it was as hot as he could tolerate. Warm water seemed at odds with the climate of Icecrown, but if it was drawn up from deep enough within the earth, the surface temperature wouldn't affect it. The Lich King followed him. "The man who brought me to you on the first night, is he among them?"

Arthas nodded. "Yes. His name's Danton."

"Then I want to start with him," Kael'thas said, reaching out to swirl the water with one hand. Danton was not a name that had come from Lordaeron. It was far more suited to a man of Stormwind, and Kael'thas wondered how the deathknight had come to be here. 

"Is there a reason for that?" Arthas asked.

"Yes," said Kael'thas, tossing the blanket to one side, on the floor, "but it's slightly embarrassing. I want to know if he plays chess."

"I--" Arthas began, and then stopped. "Wait. Are you undressing?"

"Yes." Kael'thas turned. "How... else would I be expected to bathe?"

"So you're embarrassed about asking if someone plays chess," said Arthas, "but you don't care about undressing in front of me?"

"If this is about last night," Kael'thas said, "that was different."

"It has nothing to do with last night."

"So then it's about humans and your bizarre cultural insecurities."

Arthas scowled. "Don't be racist."

"It's not racist if it's true," Kael'thas said. He undid he pants and slid them off, and Arthas turned away. It was silly, but he supposed he appreciated the attempt to be respectful. Stepping over the edge, he slid down into the pool of hot water. It was nothing like being out in the sun, but it felt good to be warm. "And turn around, I'm under the water now. I absolutely refuse to hold a conversation with your back. It's undignified."

He ducked under the water, holding his breath and then exhaling as slowly as he could. When he rose, he found that Arthas had come to sit at the edge of the bath.

"Tell me about the war," Kael'thas said. "Did you start it?"

"You're probably going to be upset at how little I was actually involved."

"Old hatreds, then?" He hung his arms over the edge of the basin and leaned his body against the warmed tiles.

Arthas glanced down at him. "Something like that."

"Tell me what it's like," said Kael'thas. "If you want my help, I need information."

There was soap on some of the raised tiles, and Kael'thas took it, scraping flakes off the bar with his nails and using as little as he dared to wash the oil and sweat from his hair. It was far harsher than he was used to, and he wondered if the vrykul made this as well. It seemed odd that Scourge would have need it of it, but perhaps not the oddest thing he'd encountered during his stint in captivity.

"Some time ago," Arthas said, "the Twisting Nether became... unstable. Kel'thuzad and the other sorcerers weren't sure what caused it, but it allowed nearly unrestricted passage back and forth between Azeroth and Draenor."

Kael'thas listened quietly, tipping some water over his head and combing his fingers through his hair.

"After they discovered it, both the Alliance and Horde launched expeditions there, to recover any survivors." Arthas watched him, trying to make it look as though he wasn't watching.

That got Kael'thas' attention. "Did they find--"

"Illidan? No."

"I was going to say Alleria and Turalyon."

"Oh." Arthas blinked. "No, not them either, but they found the lost army, the Sons of Lothar. The Wildhammers. Brought them home, or at least, back to Stormwind and Ironforge."

Kael'thas nodded. "I'm sensing there's more, though. What of the Horde?"

"The Horde expedition found the orcs who had remained behind. Mostly women and children. Those who were crippled or too young to fight." Arthas went on. "The evacuations are still ongoing, but among them was the son of Grom Hellscream."

"I see," Kael'thas said. It wasn't a shock to hear that the orc leader had a child. Though he knew little of orc culture, from what he understood, ancestry and family were immensely important to them. It would have been odder to imagine that an orc as famous and formidable as Grom _hadn't_ had at least one child. "What of him?"

"The new Warchief became..." Arthas trailed off, considering his choice of words. "Enamored with him, is how I'd put it."

Kael'thas raised an eyebrow. "Romantically?"

"No," said Arthas. "Nothing like that, but he kept him in far greater confidence than he should have. Heeded him where he should have been cautious. Let the son of Hellscream get away with things he would never have tolerated from another, as though he were some favored child or war hero."

Kael'thas made a noise or derision. "How did that turn out for him?"

"I'm not entirely sure," Arthas said. "The boy ousted him, and my spies are trying to locate the wayward Warchief."

Sinking under the water, Kael'thas swept the last of the soap from his hair and rose back to the surface. "You're saying this boy _overthrew_ the new Warchief?"

"Yes," said Arthas. "Almost immediately, he began agitating for war with Alliance. He sent envoys to the Blackrock and the Dragonmaw, and not long afterwards, he drove the Alliance settlements out of Kalimdor, some of them by force."

"Varian must have been in fits." Pressing his back against the tiles, Kael'thas rested his weight on his elbows. "The War starting up again, as if it never ended. And neither of them knows the Scourge exist?"

"They know the Scourge exist, but they think they're scattered, broken into remnants," said Arthas. "That I'm dead."

"You _are_ dead," Kael'thas pointed out.

"I meant--" Arthas paused, and undid his shirt, pulling it open. Below his ribs lay a horrific scar. It was blue-black, and the places where magical venom had wracked his body spread away from the old wound, like a spider's web. It crawled up, over his ribs, and down, towards the crease of his hip.

Kael'thas moved closer, to get a better look. It was impossible to deny the fact that Arthas was attractive, and even in death he seemed to radiate a sort of dark charisma. He was young, well-formed, tight with muscle. Taller than Kael'thas, which, to be honest, suited the elf's tastes just fine. If not for everything else that had passed between them, he might have found some enjoyment in rolling into bed with Arthas for a night or two. As it stood...

"Is this from the _tiril'shillah?_ " he asked.

"If that's the word for 'arrow', then yes."

"No," said Kael'thas, moving forward to touch. His fingers found the entry wound in the knot of discolored flesh, and it was arrow-sized. He ran his thumb over it. "It's not. It means... something like, 'the three-step-poison'."

"That one tiny word means all those other words?" Arthas made a face.

"Yes. It does. Don't be racist," Kael'thas snapped. "It's called that because the victim usually dies before they take three more steps. Who did this? It must have been a whole new type of agonizing, and it's not that you didn't deserve it, but the _tiril'shillah_ poison is banned under Alliance law."

"Isn't adding the words 'the' and 'poison' to both sides of that word superfluous?"

"I'm absolutely blown away that you know how to use the word 'superfluous' in a sentence," Kael'thas retorted. "Arthas, who?"

The Lich King paused, and Kael'thas, sensing he wasn't going to like the answer, withdrew his hand.

"Sylvanas."

Kael'thas felt himself go still. "Halduron told me that she died in the battle for Silvermoon."

Arthas eyed him. "For whatever it's worth, he didn't lie."

"Arthas!" Kael'thas gripped the edge of the bath and half-rose, then thought better of it, and sank back into the water. "Where is she? What did you do to her?! Is she a deathknight?!"

"You weren't nearly this upset about Dorozhand," Arthas pointed out, "and you liked him way better."

"Clearly, Dorozhand is happy enough to be your slave, while Sylvanas decided that she hates you enough to stack war crimes onto assassination attempts!" A number of scenarios played out in Kael'thas' mind, none of them pleasant. He could handle Arthas' attentions, even go to bed with him if he had to, but he wouldn't tolerate it happening to another of his people. He worried what had become of the Ranger-General. Perhaps Arthas was above raping his minions, but Kael'thas had heard stories of the excesses of the other deathknights, rumors of them taking prizes.

"She's in Lordaeron," said Arthas, at last.

"Doing _what_?" Kael'thas demanded. 

"Ruling it," said Arthas. "Or... so Putress tells me. It's fine. Let her think she's won, she can hold it for me until it's time to return."

Kael'thas let out a long sigh of what he thought might be relief. It wasn't, in its own odd way, nearly as bad as it could have been. With one hand, he wrung out his hair and rose from the water. Arthas turned his head.

"It amazes me that you've done the things you've done and you still want to draw a line on proper manners." Kael'thas frowned over the drying garments. None of them were red or gold, so he picked out a black one and tied it around his waist. It seemed the most appropriate color. 

"To be honest, I don't care all that much," Arthas said, without turning, "but you said not to presume."

"So I did." Kael'thas felt a smile tug at his lips, and he flattened them back into a line. "Let's go, your majesty. We have work to do."


	9. Chapter 9

That afternoon, Kael'thas met Danton Silversmith for the first time.

The human was old, to the eyes of an elf. Old enough to be Arthas' or Jaina's grandfather. He was of average height, and in his youth, he had probably been handsome enough. His brown hair was greying at the temples, and before his transformation, his body had begun to run to fat in places, the way it did with humans caught in the grip of old age. Death had erased his frailties, and so despite all this, he walked with the light step of a young man. Like the other deathknights who lived full-time in Icecrown, when he came to visit Kael'thas, he didn't wear his armor.

The captive Prince had been working when he heard the scrape of the door opening. Though perhaps 'working' wasn't the best word for it. Earlier in the day, a trio of slaves had carted in several stacks of books and left them for him, an acknowledgement of his request to learn necromantic theory. Kael'thas had flipped through them briefly, then sorted them into piles based on usefulness and readability. He suspected that Kelthis had already neutered them, removing any knowledge that might be even a remote threat to the Scourge, but every journey needed to start somewhere.

The deathknight came to the door of the dining area and stopped, touching over his heart with three fingers of his right hand. Kael'thas recalled practicing that, a long time ago. While he had been traveling with Voren'thal and Ghlorine on a steam train. It seemed like it had happened on another world.

"Prince Kael'thas," Danton said.

"Just Kael'thas, please." Kael'thas stood. "No need for formality, Danton."

"Of course. The King said you wanted to see me? And already introduced me, it would seem." His tone suggested that Danton had no idea _why_.

"I did," Kael'thas said. He gestured to the chairs. "Please sit. Just pick one. Arthas doesn't use any of them, so no need to worry about disgracing the King's chair."

Danton moved to sit on the opposite side of the table, somewhere there wasn't a pile of books. Kael'thas arranged the ones on his side, to have a clear view of the other man.

"Danton, are you from Stormwind?" Kael'thas asked.

"Originally."

"I see." Kael'thas sat back down, closing the book he'd been reading and setting it aside. "How did you come to be living in Lordaeron?"

"I came up with the other refugees. My wife and my daughter. My son." He drummed his fingers on the table. "Fought for Lordaeron in the Second War, and afterwards King Terenas, that was Prince Arthas' father--"

"I know who Terenas Menethil was, Danton."

"Right, of course." He chuckled. "Well, after the War, he offered me some land and I took it. Seemed cruel to pick up my family and haul them across the world again. We had friends in Lordaeron at that point. My daughter had a baby."

"I'm sorry," said Kael'thas. "About everything."

Danton shrugged. "It's not all bad."

"It seems like it is."

"Prince Kael'thas," he said, leaning forward. "What's this about?"

"I want to learn to speak Stormwind's dialect," Kael'thas said. "Or, I guess I _do_ speak it, but I'm badly out of practice."

"So am I," said Danton, "and I'm not a teacher."

"Any help would be appreciated," Kael'thas said. "Do you play chess?"

"I-- Chess?"

"Yes. Chess. The Stormwind variant."

"It's been a long time," he admitted, in the way of man trying not to boast, "but I used to play a round or two."

"I want to play," Kael'thas said, "right now. Are there boards and pieces around here somewhere? Deathknights must have some distractions, if you're not mindless."

"I could see what I could do."

*** *** ***

Danton beat him so badly Kael'thas wasn't sure how it was _happening_. The rules of the game were simple enough, you moved your pieces and captured the pieces of your opponent. Each piece was different, with its own moves, weaknesses, and strengths. Losing your king meant losing the match. A war game with a wholly unremarkable concept. That was how he had seen it when Danton explained the rules.

Six games in, he was beginning to see the appeal. The game was far less shallow than it had initially appeared, and simplicity had concealed a depth and breadth of strategies that had gone completely over his head. It was a very human game, in that respect.

"Danton, in a typical game, how many moves would you expect?" Kael'thas considered his options and nudged his tower forward.

"Between equally matched players?" Danton moved his archer, collecting one of Kael'thas' footmen. "Sixty or eighty. Check."

"What am I averaging?" he asked, surveying the board and frowning.

"Around twenty, Prince Kael'thas."

Kael'thas groaned.

"Come on now, your highness," said Danton. "The only way to get better is keep playing."

It was difficult not to smile. So easy to pretend that Danton was a normal man, and they were relaxing on a lazy afternoon. Kael'thas warned himself not to fall into the trap of that sort of thinking. These people were not his friends, though he wondered what had happened to Danton's family. He hoped they had made it to safety in Southshore, or Arathi, or Gilneas, but it would have been pointlessly cruel to ask.

"Danton, there's truly no need for formality," said Kael'thas.

"You'll have to remind at least one more time, Prince Kael'thas." The man tapped his archmage, then used it to knock over Kael'thas' king. "Checkmate."

Kael'thas rubbed his temples, exhaling loudly in frustration. "How many?"

"Moves?" asked Danton. "Twenty-three."

"Then I must strive to consider this progress." Kael'thas collected the pieces and began resetting the board.

"Again?" Danton asked.

"As much as you're willing to tolerate," said Kael'thas.

"Of course, your highness."

They played another game, and then another. Into the night, or so Kael'thas assumed. With no way to see the sun or measure the stars, it was very difficult to tell time. Danton seemed willing enough to chat, though he was uncomfortable with correcting Kael'thas' pronunciation when they conversed in the Stormwind dialect. They spoke about the Second War, of which they were both veterans, since it seemed an oddly neutral subject. The old man was easy to talk with, and Kael'thas confessed his frustrations with the Isolationists, who had seen Quel'thalas brought to the brink of disaster before they acquiesced to dealing with humans.

It made him think of Rommath, whose House had been the main financial backers of the Isolationist movement, and thinking of Rommath made his heart ache. The magister had broken ties with his family during the Second War, seeing a difference between wanting to preserve elven culture and lands against human encroachment and the outright hatred his High House had preached. Unwelcome on his family's estates afterwards, he had gone with Kael'thas to live in Dalaran. Rommath had a tendency to fall back on Isolationist thinking, constantly frustrated with mortals and their failings, but the strides he'd made since the War were impressive.

Was he alright? Was Illidan taking care of him? The Outland of Draenor was not a welcoming place, but there was no _other_ place for outcastes and infernalists.

"Are you alright, Prince Kael'thas?" asked Danton.

"Fine," Kael'thas lied.

They talked about Lordaeron, to which Danton seemed to hold paradoxical loyalties. He clearly loved his adopted nation, admired and even mourned Terenas, and yet his acceptance of Arthas as his ruler and King was completely cemented. Kael'thas thought of the way Dorohand had begged for forgiveness, and then, not even a day later, genuinely believed that Kael'thas would leap at a chance to drain the Sunwell, just to stay with Arthas and make him happy. He thought of Liera's weeping and Abigail's bickering and backbiting, and they way they had thrown themselves at the Infernals the moment the Lich King had given the word.

He thought of Arthas himself, saying he loved Jaina, the words coming without hesitation or doubt.

What _happened_ in the time between a mortal's fall and rise? What broke inside them? What did Frostmourne _do_ to them?

Danton beat him again. Twenty-five moves.

"You're distracted," the deathknight observed.

"I have a lot on my mind," Kael'thas admitted. "I'm trying to learn necromancy and chess at the same time and now I'm not certain which of them is going to be more vexing."

Danton smiled. "I have something to ask, but I'm worried it might offend you."

"Whatever it is," Kael'thas said, "I'm sure it's fine."

"Does that collar hurt you?" The deathknight eyed him, and paradoxically, Kael'thas thought he sensed concern.

"No," said Kael'thas. "We used to have something like them in Dalaran, for restraining criminals. It's more like..." He searched for the right words. "...it's more like wearing earplugs, or a veil. It dulls my senses, and a sorcerer has a lot more of those."

"Hn." The deathknight raised an eyebrow. "That so?"

"It's a little difficult to explain to someone who isn't also a mage," said Kael'thas, "but yes."

"Do you think you'd play better with it off?"

"Are you offering?" Kael'thas watched him, carefully. There was no way the deathknight would aid him, so his concern seemed pointless, and yet he still expressed it.

"Not at all," Danton said, "just curious. Check."

"Then you should know that I'd still be playing like garbage without it," Kael'thas said, grimacing at the board.

Danton laughed, and after a moment, Kael'thas did too.

*** *** ***

Arthas returned late that night, after Danton had left. Or at least, Kael'thas assumed it was late.

"What are you doing here?" he asked.

"Coming to bed with you," Arthas said. "In case it's the last time."

"Is that the excuse we're going to use?" Kael'thas rolled his eyes.

Arthas smirked. "Unless there's another you like better."

"I met a human today who wasn't a complete asshole," Kael'thas said, though he rose from where he had been sitting and headed for the bedroom. The Lich King followed him. "So my tolerance for you is going to be even lower than normal, Arthas. Take off your armor, I don't want you getting frost on the sheets."

Arthas began doing so, carefully laying each piece across one of the chairs. Frost spread out beneath it, warping the wood. 

Kael'thas sat down on the bed and undid his boots, kicking off one, than the other. "It's merely that it's such a terrible excuse."

"Don't act as though it's the only way I'm terrible," Arthas said. 

"What are you even doing while I'm sleeping?" Kael'thas asked as he lay down, pulling the blankets around himself. He wondered how he had ever claimed there were too many, even with the curtains to block the chill from the balcony, the rooms seemed freezing to him.

"Working," said Arthas, moving to the other side of the bed. 

Kael'thas didn't turn as he felt the bed shift, and it wasn't like Arthas moved when he lay there. If he had to guess, the Lich King was staring placidly at the ceiling, gazing out beyond it, though the eyes of his mindless dead. He wondered how far Arthas could reach, and he closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

It didn't work.

"They're all in love with you," Kael'thas said, after what felt an eternity. "Abigail. Dorozhand. My Well-Watchers. Danton. I could talk to every deathknight in Icecrown and it would be the same."

"I know," said Arthas.

"This conspiracy doesn't exist anywhere except in your head, Arthas." Kael'thas sighed. "You don't need me for anything other than being a prize for your bed, you can admit it if you want to."

"Is that the excuse we're going to use?"

Kael'thas flinched. "Is there another one you'd like better?"

"You can hurt someone you love," Arthas said. "You have no idea how easy it is to wade into that river."

"I don't think it's something I'll ever have to worry about," Kael'thas said. "Arthas, where did this paranoia come from? Is it a symptom of undeath? You weren't like this, before."

"I wasn't a lot of things, before."

Kael'thas sat up and turned to Arthas. "Do you remember Jaina's birthday?"

"The third of Norsa."

"What about Calia's?"

"Kael, is there a point to this?"

"Yes," Kael'thas snapped. "Now tell me when your sister's damn birthday was."

"The sixteenth of Arat." Arthas glanced over at him. "I don't know yours."

"Let's keep it that way," Kael'thas said. "What year?"

"What year was Calia born in?" Arthas wasn't stalling, the pause came from confusion. "RY 641. Kael?"

Kael'thas considered. "Do you remember Varian's wedding?"

"Which part?" Arthas raised an eyebrow.

"The part where," Kael'thas paused, and sighed, "I caused an international incident."

"I'd hardly call it _that_ ," Arthas said. "Once the shock wore off, Varian thought it was pretty funny, and at least we were alone."

"What about Shadowmoon Valley? Do you remember living there?"

"It was a long time ago," Arthas admitted, easily enough, "but I dream about it sometimes."

"You said you don't sleep." Kael'thas watched him, resting his chin in one hand.

"I don't." Arthas searched for the right word. "Sometimes I go quiet. Is that bad?"

"I'm not sure," Kael'thas said. "Do you remember Teron at all?"

"I don't recall his face, he'd changed so much. I remember him screaming. Screaming and falling." Arthas' eyes narrowed. "No, I pushed him, I think. He was too dangerous when he was alive, and since he was already dead, a prison had to suffice."

So there it was. It was so breathtakingly simple that Kael'thas felt foolish. "Arthas?"

"Yes?"

"I said I would stay with you," said Kael'thas, "and I will."

Arthas seemed to consider. "Lay next to me," he said.

Kael'thas shifted his weight, moved the blankets, and then he did.


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a non-explicit discussion of an off-screen rape in this chapter, as well as someone throwing up, be warned.

When Dorozhand came the next morning, Kael'thas had been waiting for him.

It wasn't as if he had slept, the cost of getting through the night had been high.

The deathknight had three slaves with him, and while one of them set out a plate of food, the other two cleared away any mess from the day before. As usual, all three of them were human women.

"Dorozhand," he said.

"You're up early, Kael'thas." Dorozhand pushed the door until it closed with a hollow echo. "Sleep well? Or not at all?"

"I know everything," Kael'thas said, apropos of nothing. "Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?"

Something changed in the deathknight, his expression closed over and froze, and the air around him went still. Dorozhand didn't wear his armor, but the belt of black leather around his waist secured a runeblade to each hip. Kael'thas wondered what he would do if the former Well-Watcher decided to beat him, or murder him where he sat.

"What is it that you think you know?" Dorozhand asked, carefully.

"Perhaps we shouldn't talk in front of your slaves," Kael'thas said, "but I also feel this can't wait."

Immediately, Dorozhand pulled the door back open, the scrape of ice and metal unmistakable. He snapped his fingers at the slaves, and all three dropped what they were doing and went to him. Once they were ushered out the door, he slammed it shut.

"You should call Abigail," said Kael'thas. "I don't want to have to repeat this to the Highlord."

"She's coming," said Dorozhand. "Care to start?"

"Arthas knows too."

"Kael--"

"Not everything," Kael'thas said. "He thinks you're trying to destroy him, but I don't think that's quite it. I think you've tried already, maybe more than once, but they can't be separated, can they? The gestalt is too strong."

"No," said Dorozhand.

"No?" Kael'thas rose from where he sat. "'No' to which part!?"

"No, they can't be separated."

"Did you honestly think he wouldn't notice? That he wouldn't suspect!?" Kael'thas clenched his fists, then forced them open. "Dorozhand, what are you scheming at!? This castle, the replica of the Lordaeron royal apartments, all these silly mines and outposts and gates! Have you all been up here, shitting around and playing Knights of Lordaeron to try and make that, that... make _him_ think he's Arthas Menethil!?"

"He _is_ Arthas Menethil," Dorozhand retorted. "So we're not _playing_ at anything. You don't know what you're talking about."

"The hell I don't--"

The door swung again, to admit Abigail Turner. Unlike her lieutenant, she was fully armed and armored, the Ashbringer gleaming on her back. She was tall for a woman, the same height as Dorozhand, and her footfalls were heavy, echoing in the empty space. She glowered at Dorozhand, and then Kael'thas.

Kael'thas returned her glare, utterly unafraid.

"Prince Kael'thas," she said, nodding to him.

"Dorozhand and I were just talking," he said, acidly.

"I'm sure you were." She folded her arms, her armor creaking. "Don't stop on my account."

"Do you like playing house with your Prince's dead body, Abigail?"

"Much more than I like Ner'zhul," she said. "You don't know what it was like, before we managed to bring him around."

"Bring him around?" Kael'thas stared at her. "Because Arthas was..."

"Quiet," she said. "He was quiet."

"...and part of 'bringing him around' involves dragging _me_ into this to, what?" Kael'thas looked between them. "Suck his dick?"

"Not exactly," said Dorozhand.

"But if you would," said Abigail, "it would help us out quite a bit."

"After everything he's done, you want to _reward_ him!?" Fury gripped Kael'thas' heart in tight red claws, and this time, it didn't let go. Magic surged and thrashed inside of him, trying to get free. "Build him pretty castles, and bring him his childhood crush for his bed, and run around Northrend like it's your own private empire, pretending nothing is wrong so you can _appease your fucking murderer!?_ "

"Kael'thas--" Abigail began.

"I'm not finished!"

"Yes," she said, "you are. Sit down."

"The King's Consort doesn't take orders from the Highlord, Abigail." Kael'thas didn't budge. "If we're going to play pretend Lordaeron, let's not stop with the replica castle."

She shifted her weight, her expression dire. "I've killed men for less."

"So have I." Kael'thas met her gaze. "Explain the point of all this."

"You should sit down," she said, at last. "It's a long story, and you're shaking, Prince Kael'thas."

So he was, and the anger retracted, cooling slowly into worry and fear. He gripped one hand with the other and sank back into his seat, resting his hands on his lap. Keleseth had said he was in an early stage, too early for seizures, he hoped. Dorozhand slid down onto one of the couches, and there was that cultivated look of discomfort again. Abigail paced.

"After Illidan escaped and we captured you," she said, "Arthas went up to the spire of the glacier, and when he returned, he was... different."

"Not himself," said Dorozhand.

"Insatiable," Abigail said. "He wanted to secure Icecrown, and then Northrend against invasion, but that was all he cared about. Once we had finished, he wanted to go to the Eastern Continent. We were as meaningless to him as the mindless slaves. We... didn't eat, didn't sleep, didn't have a moment to be ourselves. We existed to serve his whims, lived and died at his pleasure. Officers in an invincible army to purge this planet clean of life."

"Why..." Kael'thas looked between them, not bothering to point out that Arthas hadn't been himself for some time. "Why not leave? You could have run away, gone to the Alliance and warned them."

"No," said Abigail. "We couldn't."

"Because we love him," Dorozhand said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Kael'thas covered his face with both hands, he wanted to scream in frustration. Abigail went on.

"Even moreso than during the fall of Lordaeron, that period was when the Scourge grew the most. We raised so many of the mindless ones that they seemed beyond number. There were days, whole weeks when we did nothing else." She glanced back at Dorozhand. "It was... we couldn't accept it. Arthas changed us, but the people we were before weren't erased. Dorozhand and I decided that if we had to be chained to the Lich King forever, we could at least be chained to Arthas."

She came to the table and dragged her gauntlet over the surface. "So we started building all this. Trying to remind him of who he used to be, to call him back. It was slow at first. It took time, but Arthas is stronger than you think. He's stronger than Ner'zhul hoped, he wants to be the one in control."

"Why not kill him?" Kael'thas asked. "He's not invincible. If you can't bring yourself to do it, others can. Cut this collar off of me, it won't stand up to the Ashbringer. For the Light's sake, if none of _you_ have the strength, _I'll_ do it--"

"The Scourge aren't going anywhere, Kael'thas." Dorozhand's voice was soft. "They aren't ever going away, and they aren't leaving Northrend."

"He's right," said Abigail. "If not Arthas, someone else has to take up the blade. Wear the crown. There must always be a Lich King."

"Then tell Varian and this new Warchief what's _happening_ ," Kael'thas said. "Send them a message. Do something, do _anything_. Don't just hide in Northrend until it's too late for the Scourge to ever be stopped."

Dorozhand rose. "It's already far too late for that."

"It is," Abigail said, and her lips curved upwards, into a dark smile. "So why would I do that? Why would I go back to the Alliance to be seen as a murderer, a monster, a traitor? I'm the invincible, immortal Highlord of an Empire that spans an entire continent. What does the Alliance have to offer me, to offer _any_ deathknight, other than a quick execution?"

"Abigail Turner," said Kael'thas, "this hubris will end in ruin, and I won't go along with it."

"You're certainly one to talk," she snapped, "about hubris."

"I'll jump from the balcony," he threatened, realizing he meant it. "You can't watch me every second."

"Fine," she said, meeting his gaze and challenging him. "Do it, but before you jump, you should know that if not you, someone else. I'll burn Stormwind to ashes to get Jaina and Varian, I'll drag them here in chains."

"Or Calia," said Dorozhand, "or Bolvar. He wants the things he cared for in life, and we'll give them to him."

"You say he knows what we're doing, that he suspects us," said Abigail, "but I don't think he does. Not truly, or perhaps it's that he doesn't care. I think what he _really_ wants is to run around, going on an adventure and chasing a mystery with one of his old friends. It's what he was doing when he died. It helps him to be himself."

That was a gross oversimplification, and Kael'thas refused to tolerate it. "Fuck you both." He rose, though the room seemed off, light flickered at the edge of his vision.

"This is the only solution we could... live with," Dorozhand said. "We have to love him, Kael'thas. Whether he's Arthas or whether he's Ner'zhul."

"I don't have to love him!" Kael'thas took a step towards Dorozhand, who seemed to be very far away, though he was only across the room. "I'm not going to lie down with the man who destroyed my country! Who separated me from my people so he could keep me chained to his side! Who-- who..." He glanced at Abigail, then back to Dorozhand. "Who murdered you, Dorozhand. You were the closest thing I ever had to a family, as depressing as _that_ is!"

Dorozhand was saying something, but Kael'thas couldn't hear it. The room spun. Fury drained out of him like water through a sieve, and the next thing he saw was the stone floor, rushing up to meet him.

*** *** ***

When he woke up, he was back in Arthas' bed.

Of course he was.

Kael'thas tried to rise and found he couldn't, he was far too exhausted to move, though it felt as if he had been sleeping forever. Despite this, his vision was clear, and he felt relieved that he hadn't been drugged.

Dorozhand sat next to the bed, in one of the chairs from the dining area. He looked like he was sleeping, his arms folded across his chest, and his feet propped up on Arthas' side of the bed. His weapon belt was slung across the back of the chair, the twin runeblades gleaming dully. The other deathknights Kael'thas had seen all carried a single weapon, and he wondered what was so different about the leader of the Well-Watchers.

The fallen paladin had two Frostmourne wounds, so perhaps that meant he got two runeblades.

Kael'thas glanced at the nightstand as his gaze took in the room. There was a small rack of four vials resting there, differently colored liquid in each of them. The sight of it annoyed him. If they thought--

"Drink those," said Dorozhand, without opening his eyes. "Start with the red one and go left."

"What happened to me?" Kael'thas asked.

Dorozhand rose from where he sat, and circled the bed, coming around to Kael'thas' side. He plucked up the red vial and held it out. "You had a seizure. Abigail caught you when you fell. Drink it. It's medicine and it's hard to get here."

Kael'thas didn't reach for it, and turned his gaze forward.

"If you want to pretend I'm your father," said Dorozhand, "that's fine, but it's going to sour things when I have to force this down your throat."

"I'm not the one who likes to play pretend, Dorozhand."

"Stop being difficult."

"I'm going to die," Kael'thas said. He snatched the vial and drank it. It tasted foul, but more like bitter herbs than a chemical mix, and there was no point in poisoning him. "If not now, by our standards, very soon."

"Let's cross the bridge when we get to it." Dorozhand took the next vial and held it out. Kael'thas stared at it balefully.

Reaching out, he took the vial and drank it, trying to order his thoughts.

"On the first day, I asked him if he raped you and Liera," Kael'thas said, quietly. He thought again of Dorozhand's expression when the other man had been ordered to undress. "He told me no. Was that a lie?"

"It wasn't a lie." Dorozhand offered him the third vial. "He didn't."

"You mean Arthas didn't?"

"When he's quiet," Dorozhand said, "Arthas is just gone. He doesn't remember anything. Kael'thas, the medicine."

He wondered if Dorozhand would refuse to answer if he refused to drink, so he accepted it and swallowed the contents as the cost of continued conversation.

"Who else?"

"Whoever he wanted," Dorozhand said. "Ner'zhul is a chieftain. He can have his pick of those he's conquered."

"I'm going to be ill." Kael'thas pushed Dorozhand's hand away when the deathknight offered the final vial. He thought of the way Arthas' lips had felt, like the sharp pain of that first breath on a winter's day. The feel of the other man's hands as they rested on his hips. It made his skin crawl, knowing those were the same hands that had hurt Dorozhand. He gazed up the deathknight. "How can you even stand to be _near_ him?"

"Don't be ill, Kael'thas. If you throw up, we'll have to start over, and medicine is valuable." Dorozhand held the vial, but didn't press. "You would be amazed what you can learn to live with, and they're really not at all alike."

"What..." Kael'thas hesitated. "What was different with Liera?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean the crying jag," Kael'thas said. "I mean... she confronted me in the hall, when we were traveling. I think what I said disappointed her. She didn't like it that I told her to speak the human dialect, that I was so concerned with her safety."

Dorozhand was silent for a long moment, and then he set the last vial back in the rack with a light 'clink'. "When she was beneath him, Ner'zhul told her that you hated her, for dying so easily."

Kael'thas covered his mouth with one hand, but it didn't help. His stomach turned, and he vomited off the side of the bed. The medicine hadn't been so bad going down, but coming up, it burned and scratched his throat. Dorozhand stepped back, away from the mess, and Kael'thas gripped the blankets, coughing and choking.

"I'll get Keleseth," Dorozhand said, "stay here."

"Dorozhand," said Kael'thas, "wait. Don't go."

The deathknight paused in the act of turning away, and Kael'thas reached for his arm. Caught it.

"Bring Liera too."

*** *** ***

"Are we going to..." Pathaleon gestured idly with one hand, his tattoos rippling across his skin. "You know, actually _tell_ Lord Illidan what we're doing?"

"No," said Rommath, instantly. "...and I liked you better when you had that projector."

"You mean when you could pretend I wasn't a null?" Pathaleon laughed. "Bet you fuckin' did."

"You have no idea--"

"Stop bickering," Voren'thal said, running his hands over the decaying star charts, spreading them out across the table. They had been exactly where Gorefiend had said they would be, amidst the crumbling ruins of a village, which itself had once stood adjacent to some sort of stone calender. They had taken other things too, anything they could get their hands on that had survived. Stone tablets and scrying tools, a handful of anatomical diagrams. "And we're not going to report _anything_ to Lord Illidan until we actually have something to report. Don't talk to the Illidari about this either."

"Some of them are Blood Elves," Pathaleon said. "Are we forgetting that happened?"

"No, we aren't," Rommath snapped, "and no, they aren't."

"Wow, what a stunning observation from the Isolationist that I'm sure we are all totally on board with--"

"I said don't talk to them," Voren'thal said, without looking up. "I meant it. Stop fighting and don't argue with me. I'm psychic."

"You can't end every argument like that," Pathaleon snapped.

"Yes I can," Voren'thal retorted.

"Can you read those?" Rommath asked, coming around to the other side of the table.

"Some," admitted Voren'thal. "The orcish is very different from what's spoken on modern day Azeroth, but math is the same in every language. He was hardly traditionally trained, but Ner'zhul knew what he was doing."

Rommath turned one of the charts around, studying it. "What _was_ he doing?"

"He was looking for something," Voren'thal said, tracing the lines of the chart, locating Draenor, and then, Azeroth. "Out there in the Nether."

"Don't keep us in suspense," said Pathaleon. "What did he find?"

Voren'thal squinted. "Nothing."

"Elune on her fucking throne," Pathaleon said. "I almost had to see Teron Gorefiend's dick and we're no closer to rescuing Kael than we've been for months."

" _You_ were the one who told him to take it out," Rommath snapped.

"Yeah, but like, only because he said it was 'absurd'. I mean, a human dick isn't all that different from an orc dick, except for like, size. So what's up with that--"

"How many orc dicks have you even seen?" Rommath glared over at the younger man.

"Rommath," said Pathaleon, "obviously I'm not a scientist, like you and Voren. I didn't need ask the _entire Horde_ to drop trou so I could inspect each one personally--"

"So it's just _Teron's_ dick that you're so obsessed with--"

"Technically it's the dick of the guy from Stormwind whose body he's riding, but--"

Voren'thal slapped the table with one hand. "Shut up! Both of you, just shut up!"

"What?" asked Pathaleon. "Are we interrupting your view of the nothing?"

"You are, actually," said Voren'thal, smoothing down the star chart. "Rommath, come and take a look at this." He tapped it with one finger as the other sorcerer came over to observe. "There should be a star here, but instead, there's... there's just nothing. Just darkness."

Rommath stood at his side, frowning and tracing the chart with his fingers. "The orc's math must be off."

"I don't think it is," Voren'thal murmured. "His tools may have been primitive compared to what we had in Dalaran or Silvermoon, but even considering that, these charts are spectacularly precise."

"So Ner'zhul was smart." Rommath rolled his eyes. "One of them was bound to be, eventually."

"Racist," hissed Pathaleon, under his breath.

Rommath glared at him, then turned back to Voren'thal. "This empty space... this void...? This 'dark star'? Is that where Arthas is getting his power? Is that how he keeps beating us up so shamefully?"

"I don't know," mused Voren'thal. "I can see very far, but not so far as this. It emits so much darkness, the threads of fate around it are shrouded. We need to do more research. Just the three of us, in the strictest confidence."

Pathaleon smirked. "You don't trust Lord Illidan."

"It's not like he wasted any time filling the Prince's spot in his bed with Kayn and Varedis," Rommath snorted. "The sun only knows who else."

"I trust Lord Illidan to be Lord Illidan," said Voren'thal, looking between the other two. "Which means, for now, we'll tell him nothing."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rommath: *puts on shades*  
> Rommath: *turns up 'rock you like a hurricane'*

_Varian,_

_I'm sending the civilians south to Stormwind, and despite everything that has passed between our peoples, I find I must beg you to receive them in friendship and trust. I cannot abandon Lordaeron in this state, and I'm taking the Sunfury army to join with the Remnant and search for Calia Menethil. I'll come as quickly as I can, six months, perhaps a year. Until then, consider my cousin Lor'themar, as well as my Ranger-General, Halduron, empowered to negotiate with you on my behalf, and know that the Isolationist movement is over. We wish to rejoin the Alliance, if you'll have us._

_Yours,_

_33:7:12_

*** *** ***

Varian gazed down at the mess of papers in front of him on the table. Reports, missives, inventories, lists. The telegraph from Kael'thas sat amidst them, looking up at him. It was more than a year old, and Varian covered it with another document.

 _You're the High King now_ , he reminded himself. _There's no getting away from this_.

Bolvar sat next to to him, the other man leaned far back in is seat, looking as exhausted as Varian felt. Across the table, Jaina reclined opposite him, her expression terse and concerned as she flipped through a stack of reports. Next to her was Mathias Shaw, the leader of Stormwind Intelligence. Varian trusted him, which somehow made this worse.

"You're telling me," he began, and then rubbed his forehead with one hand, feeling a headache coming on. "You're telling me that the leader of the Lordaeron Remnant arrested a foreign head of state, accused him and his followers of infernalism, and then, with no trial, had him executed?"

"Not _quite_ , your Majesty," said Shaw, pressing his forefingers together. "Seeing as Arthas had no heir, when he died, leadership of the Alliance would have been ceded to you, which _technically_ speaking, in addition to all of that, means that Garithos was under your command when--"

"So, legally, this is on me?" Varian rubbed his temple with one hand.

"Well," Shaw said, "not entirely. As your Highlord, it's on Bolvar too. He's the commander of the military."

"What the hell are we going to tell Lor'themar?" Bolvar asked, glancing at Varian.

Shaw raised an eyebrow. "Not the truth, that's for damn sure."

"Varian," said Jaina. "I feel it would be unwise to begin your reign as High King by lying to your allies."

"How do you feel about Kael'thas?" he asked, gazing across the table at her. "Is there any chance this accusation has merit?"

"I... have trouble believing it," she said. "He sent me a message before he left Dalaran. He apologized for a falling out we had, years ago. He seemed enthusiastic about rejoining the Alliance."

"...but before that," said Mathias, "you and Kael'thas hadn't spoken for some time. Isn't that correct?"

"It is." Jaina rested one hand on the table. "But that doesn't change my position here. We should be forthright with Lor'themar, and despite his decorated military record, Garithos was well known in Lordaeron as an agitator and a racist."

"Considering that the Lordaeron Remnant was destroyed by the Scourge," Bolvar said, "we can't exactly drag Othmar Garithos in here for questioning."

Varian rubbed his temples and swore under his breath. 

"Should we take a break?" Mathias asked. 

"No," said Varian. "We should deal with this, right now. You trust the men who brought you this information?"

"News from the North is exceedingly difficult to acquire and even harder to verify," Mathias said, gesturing with one hand, "but I feel this is the most accurate report about Kael'thas' whereabouts that we're ever going to get."

"So he's dead," said Varian. "He was executed by the Alliance military, I'm legally responsible, and as far we know, the Scourge have his body. It's unrecoverable."

Shaw nodded. "That about sums it up, your majesty."

"There... probably wasn't a body," Jaina added, looking somber. 

"Care to explain?" Bolvar asked, turning to watch Jaina.

"Most sorcerers choose elementals as familiars for precisely that reason," she said. "Since you share powers, when you die, there's not much left behind. Ashes, charcoal, some ice or water. Arcanite fragments."

Bolvar made a face. "Other than funeral costs, the benefit of that is what, exactly?"

"Not allowing anyone to seize your corpse and use necromancy to question or reanimate it, for one," said Jaina. 

The paladin squinted at her. "But the Scourge are a relatively new threat." 

"Sorcerers are paranoid." Jaina shrugged. "There are far worse things than being buried in absentia."

There was a stark difference between a human who could command magic well enough to do a trick or two, and those powerful and talented enough to make magic their life's work. Jaina fell into the latter category. Even Dalaran, which had touted itself as a city _of_ sorcerers, had in truth, been a city _ruled_ by sorcerers. There were few mages in Stormwind, and not a single one of them approached Jaina's level of insight and talent, even those men three times her age. In truth, Varian would have been happy to listen to the rest of her explanation, if not for the pressing need to address this looming diplomatic disaster.

"I need to see Lor'themar and Halduron," he said, rising from where he sat. The day was already going poorly, and it was barely half over.

"What..." Mathias glanced up at him, the spy holding his chin in one hand. "What do you intend to tell them?"

Varian looked from the spy, to Bolvar, and then Jaina, considering his options. "Everything," he said, at last.

*** *** ***

Dorozhand brought two girls to clean the floor next to the bed and ignored them while they worked. For his part, Kael'thas ignored them as well, not wanting to draw attention to either of them. While Dorozhand seemed to treat them kindly, the captive prince suspected that if what passed between him and Arthas was any indication, a deathknight's fixation couldn't be entirely healthy.

After the girls were gone, Keleseth came back, setting out three new vials and leaving the untouched medicine alone. There were surely other san'layn, but it seemed that Keleseth was the only one that Arthas trusted with his favorite prisoner.

Liera was with him, and she kept her gaze downcast. Kael'thas wondered what he should even say to her, more than that, he wondered what he even had the right to say to her. He wasn't a counselor, but he decided that they should at least speak privately.

...and in their own language; Liera struggled with the Common dialect, and he wanted nothing to be lost.

For a time, Kael'thas sat patiently while Keleseth poured over him, once again. This time, the san'layn checked his eyes and his breathing, then tilted his head from side to side, checking him for injuries.

"I'm told the seizure lasted less than one minute," said Keleseth, "though Dorozhand didn't time it. It could have been worse."

The assertion made Kael'thas hotly furious, and he wanted to raise his hand and slap Keleseth for daring to imply his situation could be _worse_. Instead, he thought of the two girls cleaning the floor, and of the other slaves here, without the threat of retribution from the Lich King to protect them from whatever impulse might come to a deathknight's mind.

He considered Keleseth himself, who had been one of the most brilliant surgeons of the modern day. The man had been denied all but the barest recognition in Quel'thalas, as a punishment for being born into the wrong caste. Kael'thas wondered if Keleseth had fallen in with Cult while traveling in human lands, which was something the physician had done frequently. He wished there was something he could say to Keleseth to dissuade him from his new allegiance, but there wasn't. By all accounts, the doctor was acknowledged and recognized here. The personal physician to the High King, if not the Emperor. Kael'thas had nothing to offer him.

"I suppose it could have been," Kael'thas said, reining himself in. "Thank you Keleseth, for your help."

Keleseth tapped his claws together, and briefly, Kael'thas worried that he used those terrible things for surgery. More than that, how had the good doctor had them fitted and attached? It seemed unlikely that a surgeon would allow anyone, even another surgeon, to alter his hands.

"You're not going to threaten to murder me this time, your highness?" The doctor smiled, thinly.

Kael'thas felt sheepish. "No," he said. "I was speaking in anger, before."

"I suppose it... passes for an apology," Keleseth said, moving one finger back and forth, and watching Kael'thas follow it with his eyes.

"I don't recalling apologizing," Kael'thas said. "You're still a traitor."

"You're far kinder to Dorozhand," said Keleseth, withdrawing his hand.

"Dorozhand wasn't given a choice."

"I suppose that's true." Keleseth tapped the row of vials with one claw. "Ready to start over? Or do you want to continue trading barbs?"

"Don't patronize me," Kael'thas said, haughtily.

"Then stop being difficult."

Kael'thas glanced at Liera, who hadn't spoken since she arrived, and resolved that he would be as compliant as it took to get rid of Keleseth. He took the vials one at a time and drank them without complaint. As before, they were bitter and foul, but he doubted they were poison. If Arthas wanted to harm him, it was already within the Lich King's power to do so. "Dorozhand," he said, when he had finished. "Can I speak with Liera alone?"

The older deathknight nodded, and he took a surprised-looking Keleseth by the arm, guiding him out.

 _This isn't about you_ , Kael'thas thought. _It's about Liera, so you had better figure out something to say to her_.

Liera kept her gaze turned away, looking at the leaves on one of the dressers. Kael'thas remembered when he had done that himself, just a few nights ago, and he sighed.

"Liera," he said, and switched to Thalassian. "Dorozhand told me what happened."

"You said not to speak in--"

"I know," Kael'thas said. "Arthas doesn't like it when people speak over his head, and I didn't want to draw his attention to you. That's all it is. We should speak in Thalassian when we're together in private."

Liera watched him, her expression forlorn. "I know," she said, switching languages as well. "That he told you."

"You have never wronged me," said Kael'thas. "Or my father. I know that, and before he died, so did he."

In truth, Kael'thas wasn't sure if he should speak for his father, but he found he didn't care all that much. Liera covered her mouth, and made a small, choked sob.

"Dorohand also told me that he thinks Arthas and Ner'zhul are different men," Kael'thas said, cautiously, "but you don't have to believe as he does. Liera, it can't be healthy, even for a deathknight, to keep loving him, after--"

"I can't!" The words came quickly, in a flood, as though a dam had broken inside of the woman. "I can't stop! I keep trying, but I can't! I want to walk into the sea."

Kael'thas rose from the bed and went to her. He felt dizzy, but he ignored it, and when he put his hands on Liera's shoulders, she didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned into him, shaking and sobbing, and Kael'thas stroked her hair with one hand, not entirely certain how to be comforting. His ability to take care of another had been limited to Voren'thal, and while the Seer was in poor physical health, Voren'thal tended to have things together emotionally.

"We're going home," Kael'thas said, at last. "I promised the others that, but you too."

"There's no place for us in Quel'thalas," she said, miserably. Kael'thas recalled Abigail saying that other than a quick execution, nothing awaited them among the living.

"Then I'll make one," he said. "Don't walk into the sea."

"You don't know what it was like." Liera rested her forehead on his shoulder. "Dorozhand is so strong. I'm not as he is."

Perhaps the Light was like magic, and it came differently to everyone, but that didn't matter. Only Liera mattered.

"Liera," said Kael'thas, "I won't let him hurt you again. I'll think of something."

"You don't know what you're promising," she said. "Ner'zhul is so strong. An ocean of darkness, a sea of power with no shore."

Kael'thas turned his gaze up towards the ceiling, worrying that perhaps she was right.

*** *** ***

Jaina fell into step beside him as they walked. One of the knights who had been part of his personal guard nearly stumbling back when she elbowed him out of the way. The man looked incredulous, and Jaina glowered at him as though _he_ had been in the wrong. Varian waved him off. Sorcerers came and went as as they pleased, and there was nothing to be gained by offending the woman who was Azeroth's last Archmage.

"You're going to need a translator," she said, plainly, though she held her head tilted a bit to one side as they walked, as though she were listening for something. "Lord Theron and General Brightwing don't speak Common."

"Thank you, Jaina." They passed the main wall of the Keep and headed out into the city beyond. Apparently being told that the King needed to see them meant that Kael'thas representatives had come to the main wall and lingered there, waiting for Varian to come to _them_. He strove to understand what their problem was, but in the North, perhaps that sort of behavior was accepted.

"They're probably uncomfortable inside stone walls," Jaina said, as though she could read his thoughts. "Elves are used to running fights. Forests that are thousands of miles deep. They think fortresses are death traps."

 _For all the good it did them_ , Varian thought, but realized he was being overly harsh. Lordaeron had fared no better, and it had been the world's foremost military power. "I need to ask you something," he said, pulling the old telegraph from his breast pocket and offering it to her. "Do these numbers mean something to you?"

Jaina's eyes flicked over it, less than a second passing before she gazed back into the distance, waving at him to put the note away. Varian couldn't help but to wonder how quickly she could read. "It's Anduin's birthdate," Jaina said, "in the High Solar Calender of Quel'thalas. Does that mean something to you and Kael'thas?"

"Yes," said Varian, tucking the note away. "It does."

"Care to clarify?"

"At my wedding, Kael'thas had his--" Varian considered. "Is 'fortune-teller' offensive to them?"

"Yes," said Jaina. "Don't call him that. Just call him Voren'thal. You may have heard Kael'thas call him _o'shari_. Which means something like 'Seer', but that's the privilege of rank, which you don't have. Finish the story."

"Kael'thas had Voren'thal tell me when Anduin's birthday was going to be," Varian said, wondering how the High King could somehow be bereft of the privileges of rank. "Tiffin and I didn't know that she was pregnant. It was a complete surprise, she must have been only a few days along."

"I see," Jaina looked amused, and Varian seemed to have gotten her attention, finally. She was looking at his face now, for the first time since they'd begun speaking. "Varian, I'm sure he didn't mean anything by it. An elf wouldn't be... aware that it's outrageously rude to point out that a woman is pregnant at her wedding."

"I know," Varian couldn't help but chuckle. "Once the shock wore off, it was funny, though I think Kael'thas wanted to die of embarrassment."

"Who else was there?" Jaina asked.

"Just Arthas," Varian admitted. "No one else knew, until just now, when I told you."

Jaina made a noise of acknowledgment. "I suppose that makes it a good way to sign a letter, then."

"I suppose it does," Varian said. "What about the rest of it?"

"After this long, Calia Menethil's chances of survival are infinitesimal." They turned a corner, crossing into the main streets of the city, the knights making way for them as they passed. "You and the Remnant wouldn't be the only ones looking for her, and the dead don't need to sleep. Arthas would never let her go."

"Does it bother you to talk about this?" Varian asked. "I know it was close to your heart."

"No," said Jaina, her voice hard. "It doesn't. I heard Calia fled with some of Uther's paladins and what remained of the royal bodyguards, but that's all I know. She and Arthas were extremely close. It's difficult to imagine a scenario that didn't involve him tearing the countryside apart, trying to locate her."

"That's probably the best way of putting it," Varian said. "If you want to be diplomatic about their... relationship."

"I wouldn't know what you're referring to," Jaina said, plainly.

"I'm sure you do," he said, wishing that he hadn't brought it up, but at the same time, not wanting to drop it. Jaina had been engaged to the man, surely she _knew_.

"Leave gossiping to peasants." The sorceress' tone was cold, and she walked briskly, forcing him to hurry, in order to keep pace. "You're the High King now, repeating old rumors is completely unacceptable."

"So you know what was going on between them?"

"Yes," she said.

"Care to clarify?" Varian asked.

"No," said Jaina. "Not particularly. Arthas and Calia Menethil's relationship is, or was, absolutely none of your business."

 _At least no one can accuse her of being afraid to speak boldly_ , Varian thought, and decided to drop the line of conversation, accepting the fact that perhaps Arthas had confided something in his fiancée that he had kept from his old friend. They had come to the outermost wall of the city, where Lor'themar Theron and Halduron Brightwing waited together. The two men stood very near to each other, speaking in hushed tones beneath the statue of Alleria.

Lor'themar was taller, the left side of his face marred by a scar deep enough that it had taken his eye, and he wore a circle of polished red glass over the empty socket. The elf was a great warrior, or so Varian had heard, and he respected that. Kael'thas' older cousin, as Jaina had explained it to him. Their mothers had been sisters, but then again, apparently all of Kael'thas' living relatives were maternal. In the modern day, the Sunstrider Dynasty had consisted of only two people, and now, none.

Halduron was shorter than his companion, and young, as far as elves went, though he was still over two centuries old. The Ranger-General was one of Alleria's distant relatives, but Jaina's attempt to explain his family tree and chart the course of elven relationships had been complicated enough that she had just advised him to think of Halduron Brightwing as one of the Windrunner family's second or third cousins. He had a sharp, curious gaze, like a hunting hawk, and he wore a bow over his shoulders. Perhaps in an attempt to look as stereotypical as possible.

The stopped speaking privately when he approached, and turned to him, though they both acknowledged Jaina first. Lor'themar spoke briefly, though Varian couldn't follow what he said.

"Lor'themar greets the High King of the Alliance," Jaina said, frowning across the space between them, at the elves. "He wants you to know that both he and Halduron find this statue to be offensive."

Varian boggled, both at the boldness and lack of manners. Both anger and annoyance bit him sharply, but he held his tongue in an effort to remain diplomatic. Kael'thas and Voren'thal certainly hadn't said anything when they had attended his wedding, but that had probably been because they hadn't expected another elf to ever set eyes on Stormwind. After the Second War, the Isolationists had risen to power again, and Quel'thalas was vanishing from the world, eternal and distant.

He glanced over at Jaina, trying to keep his tone neutral. "Can you ask them why that is?"

Jaina and Lor'themar exchanged words briefly.

"It's in poor taste to bury those who are still among the living," Jaina said.

"Then we can agree to disagree," Varian said. Both about the the tastefulness of art pieces and about the fate of Alleria and her human husband. "Tell them I didn't come here to discuss those who are among the living."

Jaina spoke, and Lor'themar inclined his head to her, just barely.

Varian explained what had transpired in Lordaeron as Jaina translated, Kael'thas' arrest and execution, that the men responsible were missing or dead as well. That they had been under his command, and while he wouldn't shirk his responsibility, he hadn't even learned of this until just today. Varian knew little of the Thalassian language beyond a few greetings, but Jaina was fully fluent, and she spoke with easy clarity and a complete lack of hesitation, as though she were a native speaker. Nonetheless, it was difficult to tell how it was going, since Lor'themar and Halduron both seemed distant, strange, and emotionally closed off. When Varian had finished, they spoke between themselves, and though he couldn't follow what they said, a few words kept repeating.

"Is Rommath a person?" Varian asked Jaina.

"Yes he is," she said.

He raised an eyebrow. "Why do they keep mentioning him?"

"Lor'themar says that if this happened as you claim, you would instead be reading a report of Rommath setting the entire Lordaeron Remnant on fire." She paused, listening. "--because Rommath doesn't like humans and he's 'just an asshole like that'."

Varian eyed her.

"Lor'themar's words," she said. "Not mine."

Halduron took Lor'themar's arm and the two whispered conspiratorially. Jaina didn't translate, but she watched them closely, listening intently. Finally, the Ranger-General turned to her and spoke.

"He says that if Kael'thas and the Sunfury haven't come, something must be preventing it." Jaina listened for a moment, then nodded. "He's going to go North and find out why, since he can't trust your spies."

"Tell him I forbid it," said Varian, firmly. "No military adventures in the North. Lordaeron is lost, and we have enough problems with the Horde."

Jaina sighed heavily, translating for the two elves. Halduron made a face, his expression incredulous as he watched Varian. Words spilled out of the Ranger-General's mouth, the answers rapid and annoyed.

"He says that while they acknowledge you as the High King of the Alliance and commander of its military, they won't be _part_ of the Alliance until Kael'thas is here to make their return official." Jaina paused, speaking briefly with Halduron before continuing. "So the sooner he leaves and locates the Prince, the sooner you can start bossing him around."

...and then, as though that were that, both elves turned and went, their long capes fluttering in the breeze.

"Jaina," said Varian, rubbing his forehead, "did that go well? I can't tell."

"About as well it was going to. Lor'themar likes you." She seemed distant, and she was watching after Halduron, as though considering something. "You did just fine, Varian."

"The day's young," he said. "There are still ways I can ruin it. Should I have someone follow the Ranger-General?"

"You could have someone _try_ , but don't waste the effort, not when we have bigger problems." She gestured. "Walk with me, and we'll talk about those."


	12. Chapter 12

When his vision cleared, there was blood in his mouth, and Kael'thas spat it out.

He lay in the snow, his robes dirty and torn, trying to figure out what had happened.

 _The portal_ , he realized. Something had disrupted it, he'd been hit by the feedback loop. Physically, he'd only suffered being thrown, and the impact from landing had knocked the wind from his lungs. The palms of his hands were burned, his manicured nails broken and cracked. That was as bad as it got.

Metaphysically was another story, and Kael'thas felt as though he'd been set ablaze and consumed. Instead of fire, all that was left of his magic was ashes, and when he tried to reach for it, he shook, pain erupting in every nerve. There was no chance for some last act of desperate defiance. No way to call for the fire that would kill him and Arthas both.

Damn it all! Dayori had died from this, why hadn't the Light seen fit to take him too?

...but perhaps the Light only looked out for its own.

Kael'thas searched for his sword and saw the gold glint of it in the snow, a hundred feet away. It may as well have been on the moon.

The Scourge were swarming around him, more like a single being than a collection of individuals. There was no end to them, and they washed over the landscape in a great, dark tide. The glimmer of Felo'melorn vanished, crushed under their feet. Why they didn't fall on him and tear him to pieces, Kael'thas couldn't imagine, but above the great mass, a creature reared up. It was of a breed of monster the fallen sorcerer couldn't recognize, half-spider and half-beetle. At its shoulder it stood five times the height of a man.

Arthas walked in its shadow, and together they emerged from the wall of fangs and limbs, a pair of corpses trawled up from a sea of death. The fallen prince rested one hand on the creature's side, as though it were a treasured friend.

Fear clutched at Kael'thas' heart, cold and terrible, and it refused to let go.

"Kael'thas!" Arthas called out, almost jovial as he left the monster's side and crossed the space between them. "It's been too long!"

_Not long enough_ , but the words wouldn't come. Kael'thas' throat was clenched tight, his tongue caught. Instead, he spat, the spatter of crimson blood sharp on the packed white snow. 

Arthas' eyes followed it, and then came back to Kael'thas. "I probably deserve that."

_You deserve far worse than that_ , Kael'thas thought, but again, words didn't come. He pushed himself up, determined, at least, to die on his feet. Arthas closed the last of the distance between them, and his hand came down on Kael'thas' shoulder. 

"Don't bother," the deathknight said. "I like the way you look on your knees."

"Fuck you!" Hatred eclipsed fear and pain, and Kael'thas forced the words out as a single, gasping syllable.

Arthas' hand closed around his robes, dragging him up, as though Kael'thas weighed nothing. The cold of the deathknight's gauntlets burned, the sorcerer's clothing offering no protection. Kael'thas doubted he'd be able to stand without Arthas' support, and the thought galled him.

"Where's Gul'dan?" Arthas asked.

What an utterly bizarre question.

Kael'thas had no answer to it, and all he could do was stare. Even stranger was that Arthas genuinely seemed to expect a response, though the fallen prince quickly grew bored with waiting. He reached for Frostmourne, and drew it from his back.

"I've learned how to make it quick," he said, drawing Kael'thas to him as he made the promise. "Not that you deserve it, for all the trouble you've caused me."

"Arthas," Kael'thas said, barely managing to get the other man's name past his lips. He thought of Illidan, of Voren'thal and Rommath. They would come for him. Shouldn't he at least try? With one hand, he gripped Arthas' sword arm, pain from the burns echoing up his arm, making his shoulder joint protest and seize. "Arthas, please--"

"You look just as good begging as you do on your knees," Arthas said, smirking, "but it won't do you any good."

"Al'ar!" Kael'thas gasped out. With his other hand, he gestured to himself. "There won't-- nothing left."

The fallen prince's eyes narrowed, and Arthas turned his head, just slightly, as though conferring with someone not present. The conversation, whatever it was, did not last long. With a flick of his wrist, Arthas threw Kael'thas backwards, and the elf landed painfully in the snow.

"Take him," Arthas said, gesturing vaguely and speaking to no one but himself. "Keep him for me until I return."

_Return?_ thought Kael'thas. _Where the hell was he going?_

He had only a few seconds to contemplate it, because the Scourge fell upon him like a wave thundering against the shore. Something struck him across the face, the blow heavy and cold, and then there was darkness.

*** *** ***

"Dorozhand, Kael'thas asked, "how are deathknights chosen?"

He was following the Well-Watcher and the Highlord, going to see Arthas after he'd been declared 'healthy' again. The corridors of Icecrown hollow, dark, and empty. The fortress must be gigantic, and Kael'thas wondered what Arthas even did when they weren't together.

"At first," said Dorozhand, without turning to face the prisoner, "he took anyone who seemed strong, or useful, or loyal, or possessed those traits in some combination that caught his eye. He needed officers, a great number of them, and very quickly." 

"What about now?" Kael'thas asked, studying the patterns on Dorozhand's cloak. 

"Now," said Abigail, "we make a very concentrated effort to only supply candidates who are loyal to Arthas specifically. Though they're getting difficult to find."

"Because the only people you have access to are the Cult," Kael'thas said, "and they're Ner'zhul's worshipers."

"Exactly," she said. "We need to secure our power, but also our King's identity. An incursion into Lordaeron or Stormwind would yield bodies, but not loyalists. Not to mention that it would galvanize and unite the living."

"What makes someone worthy?" Kael'thas asked, changing the subject. "Why Danton and not his wife or his son? Why you and not one of Arthas' other Captains?"

"Not everyone can carry it," Dorozhand said. 

"What's the attrition rate?" 

"Zero," said Abigail. "We vet the candidates extremely carefully. If someone unsuitable is brought forth, when Arthas asks me for my approval, I throw them from the Spire and they join the swarms below."

"I'd hardly call that 'zero'," Kael'thas muttered. "Arthas asks for your approval?"

"Of course he does," she said. "I'm his Highlord. The head of the Scourge military forces." Abigail glanced back at him. "The Horseman of Death does not suffer fools."

*** *** ***

"Prince Kael'thas?"

From where he was working, Kael'thas looked up. The blood elf who stood before him was young, his hair dark, and his eyes a light, shimmering blue. The young man's bronze skin was covered in new tattoos, blood oozing in places where the darker colors gathered, but otherwise they seemed artfully done. At a guess, Kael'thas would have said it was Pathaleon's work. The null had a much lighter hand than any of the Illidari.

Illidan had asked Kael'thas for blood elves to train, and Kael'thas had initially protested. He couldn't recall how the Betrayer had acquired his acquiescence, what promise had spilled from Illidan's lips while he had been hilted inside Kael'thas' body, but in the end the exiled prince had given in. It seemed he always did.

This was Daymiar, one of the volunteers. He was handsome and young, his body narrow and hard, his expression serious.

Kael'thas could see why the Betrayer liked him so much, and he wondered if Illidan had already taken Daymiar to bed.

Daymiar, for his part, seemed to have taken Kael'thas lack of an answer as an invitation to continue.

"I want to get married," he said.

"You had better hurry it up then," Kael'thas said, turning back to the translation he was working on. The elven languages shared an origin, but the ancient spellbooks Vashj had carried with her to the surface were hardly light reading, even for him. "You're going to Illidan tomorrow, and the damned can't be wed."

"It's more complicated than that," Daymiar said. "She is, that is to say, my fiancée, is in a different caste than me. I'm sure it would help our situation if you would give us your approval."

"I see." Kael'thas flipped the book shut, intrigued now. "Who is your fiancée, exactly?"

"Her name is Airesh Gladerunner, your Highness. She's the daughter of Vitoria Gladerunner."

"I know Vitoria personally," Kael'thas said, gazing up at the younger man. "She's a highly esteemed member of the Solar Circle. She and her children are not with the Sunfury Army, and they were not with the evacuation. The Scourge took them, Daymiar, they're gone."

"I have every intention of finding them after we return to Azeroth and defeat the Scourge--"

Kael'thas brought his hands together and steepled his fingers. "And I'm _certain_ I didn't hear anything about the only daughter of one of the High Houses of Quel'thalas getting engaged."

"We were only keeping it secret because of my caste--"

"Which is?" Kael'thas asked, though he thought he might know the answer already.

"It's--" Daymiar began, and then cut himself off, taking a deep breath before continuing. "I'm indentured, your Highness. I was a guard, a swordsman in service to Lady Gladerunner's household. She bought my contract after my family lost their name."

"If you belonged to Lady Gladerunner, then why is her location such a mystery to you?" Kael'thas raised an eyebrow. "Shouldn't her swordsman have been with her, when the city fell?"

Daymiar faltered, but only momentarily. "She sold me," he said. "Just before the fall. She didn't want me near her daughter. I think she was concerned that--"

"That Airesh was fucking the help?"

"Something like that, Prince Kael'thas."

"A man who doesn't even own himself is going to come to me and ask to marry Lady Gladerunner's daughter. The heiress to a High House, one of the Jewels of Quel'thalas." Kael'thas smiled thinly. "How bold. I thought Illidan only liked you for your body, but perhaps there's more to you."

Daymiar flushed and looked away, and Kael'thas guessed that satisfied his curiosity. He wondered if he was even jealous. Illidan was not one for delayed gratification, and the Betrayer found the concept of purity absurd. It seemed pointless to deny him anything.

"No," Kael'thas said, as he took a pen, smoothed down a piece of parchment and began writing.

"Your Highness, if you would only hear me out--"

"I've heard all that I intend to listen to," Kael'thas said. "I won't endorse your engagement without talking to Airesh first."

"But Airesh isn't here--"

"I'm aware of that." Kael'thas finished writing, and passed one hand over the paper, drying the ink. He turned it, and slid it across the table, to Daymiar.

"What's this?" he asked, reaching for it.

"It's a Writ of Elevation, as one of the _thalamir_ ," Kael'thas said. "If you're going to serve the Sunfury Army, you should at least be in the military caste. Take it, and when we find her, feel empowered to ask for her oaths openly, instead of in secret."

"I..." Daymiar held the paper carefully, as though it were the most precious thing he owned. In all likelihood, it was. "Thank you, Prince Kael'thas. I won't forget this, no matter how Illidan changes me."

*** *** ***

"Is Airesh Gladerunner here?" Kael'thas asked, apropos of nothing. "Is her mother?"

"I don't know the name of every slave in Icecrown," Dorozhand said as they walked. 

"I'm sure you would know of her though," Kael'thas said. "Her mother was part of the Solar Circle, and she was the heiress to a High House. More than one family was in competition for a marriage contract with her, including mine."

"As I said, Kael'thas--"

"Is the reason that you always bring human girls to me because you don't want me to know that you and Arthas took slaves from Silvermoon?" Kael'thas glared at the deathknight's back.

"I didn't want to upset you," said Dorozhand, glancing backward. "Your health is fragile."

"Well, so is this conspiracy, and I'm already upset." Kael'thas crossed his arms. "If she's here, find her."

"I'll look," Dorozhand said, turning away, "but no promises."

Something else occurred to him. "Are all the slaves here women?"

"Almost exclusively."

Kael'thas narrowed his eyes. A number of reasons for that came to mind, and he didn't like any of them. "Why?"

Dorozhand began to speak, but Abigail shook her head. "Don't answer that."

"What happens to the men?" Kael'thas asked, looking between them.

"Dorozhand," said Abigail, her tone so cold it chilled the air, "don't answer that either."

*** *** ***

"So this is where you're hiding," Arthas said, stepping out onto the balcony. He was dressed in riding leathers, tall boots with no spurs, a blue sash across his chest, and as he came to the railing, he adjusted his gloves.

"I'm not hiding," Kael'thas said, miserably. "I'm just mortified. I don't want to see anyone, and I don't want anyone to see me."

"Varian isn't upset," Arthas said, grinning. "He's actually ecstatic. Kael, he knows you weren't trying to call his wife a whore. They even picked out a name."

"Are you going to tell me," said Kael'thas, "or did you come up here because you want to trade barbs?"

"Anduin Llane Wrynn." Arthas leaned on the railing. "I came up here because we're going bow hunting. Varian asked me to invite you." 

"I like the name," said Kael'thas, "and thank you, but no."

"...because I'm going to be there?"

"Because I don't want to, Arthas."

"Fair enough." Arthas turned, resting his elbows on the stone railing, looking back while Kael'thas gazed out over Stormwind. The city seemed impossibly huge, and it dominated the landscape, a forest of stone and metal and concrete. "There's something else I want to talk about."

"In the interest of getting rid of you more quickly," Kael'thas said, "what is it?"

"Since we were talking about names, what do you think of 'Arthas, the Light of Dawn'?"

Kael'thas rolled his eyes. 

"Nothing?" Arthas nudged him. "Then, 'Arthas, the Paladin King."

"I think I've never met a man who thinks so highly of himself," Kael'thas said, annoyed and somehow amused at the same time. "You're incorrigible."

"That's fair," Arthas said, "but let me tell you something, Kael, as far as you're concerned, I've never met a man who thinks so little of himself."

"Please tell me that's not what you came up here to talk about."

"It's not," said Arthas. "I want you to bring Quel'thalas back into the Alliance."

Kael'thas sucked in a sharp breath. "Arthas," he said. "You don't know what you're talking about. It's not my decision to make."

"Why not?"

"Because it's not that simple." Kael'thas sighed. "It isn't as it is with humans. There's no right of succession in Quel'thalas, and the political powers the Solar Circle cedes to me are extremely limited. _My_ father isn't in his eighties, Arthas, he's _immortal_ , and he lives in seclusion on Quel'danas. I'm never going to be King. Not in your lifetime, anyways. Lordaeron is going to be ashes before change ever comes to Quel'thalas."

"So what?" Arthas was watching him. "That's it?"

"That's it," Kael'thas said. "I would come back to Alliance tomorrow, if I had the power, but I don't. The Isolationists control the Solar Circle, they hate humans, and they're very strong."

"Are they the reason you're so miserable all the time?"

"I'm not miserable all the time," Kael'thas said, turning his gaze away from Arthas and back out over the city. 

"Kael'thas, _come on_ \--"

"You can't read my mind."

"I'm perfectly capable of reading your face." Arthas reached out, to touch Kael'thas' arm, and the contact was so unexpected that the elf jerked away. "Sorry," said Arthas.

" _Don't_ ", Kael'thas snapped. "It's fine, but don't."

"It's not just you," said Arthas, withdrawing his hand, "there are exiles living in Lordaeron, and Dalaran. People who lost their names, people with half-elven children, people who were indentured and ran away. They're scared, Kael. I don't see why we can't fix things. Make it right."

"Arthas." Kael'thas rubbed his forehead. "It's politically and socially complex, the situation has a lot of moving parts."

"Politics shouldn't get in the way of doing what's right," Arthas said.

"That's a dangerous attitude for the future High King," Kael'thas said, glancing up at him. "You're going to have to be far more politically astute than that if you ever hope to seduce me back into the Alliance."

"You said you wouldn't." A smile tugged at the corners of Arthas' mouth.

"I said I _couldn't_ ," Kael'thas said, "but just maybe you'll impress me, and just maybe I'll be King someday."

"Is that a 'yes'?"

"It isn't a 'no'."

Arthas leaned forward, just a little, not quite enough to be inappropriate, but close. His auras were powerful, washed clean with light and the sharp chill of the winter star he'd been born under. "I really want you to come bow hunting with us," he said.

Kael'thas tilted his chin up. "Because you want me there, or because you think I'll be a good partner, simply because I'm an elf?"

"Can't it be both?" Arthas grinned. "I mean, I want to win and you _are_ good at it, aren't you?"

"You're a complete jackass," Kael'thas said, "but of course I'm good at it, it's my country's national sport."

"It's the sport of Kings," said Arthas.

"It's the sport of _elven_ Kings, Arthas." Kael'thas smirked.

"Now who's being racist?"

"Says the man who only wants me along because I'm an elf," Kael'thas said. "if Varian is taking Bolvar, you should take Uther. He's your Highlord."

"He's also shit at bow hunting," Arthas said, "and even if he wasn't, he's not going to trounce Varian at his wedding celebration."

"Because Uther has an actual sense of propriety and _grace_." Kael'thas crossed his arms.

"Did you bring your riding leathers or not?" Arthas asked.

"I brought them," Kael'thas said, deciding not to lie.

"Then, if I go down to the stables to wait, is my future co-King going to stand me up?"

"No," said Kael'thas, considering, and then deciding that one short afternoon to himself wouldn't hurt anything, "he's not, but don't imagine we've suddenly become close friends."

"I would never," Arthas said touching his hand to his heart. "This is strictly a North verses South thing."

"Good," said Kael'thas, turning to go, leaving Arthas alone on the balcony, and wondering what he was getting himself into.

*** **** ***

Kael'thas wondered how exactly he was supposed to reconcile the man responsible for all this with the Arthas who had refused to wear spurs on his riding boots because he thought they were cruel; who had complained every time he actually had to attend court, because it cut into his time riding around with Uther, rescuing people and getting into scraps with murlocs and gnolls; who had wanted so _badly_ to fix everything wrong with the world.

 _Arthas, the Paladin King_ , Kael'thas thought, the old memories snarling together. _Arthas, the Light of Dawn. Politics shouldn't get in the way of doing what's right. I want to win. I like the way you look on your knees. My future co-King. Where's Gul'dan?_

Light, he wanted to scream. Perhaps he would have, if it would have helped.

How did anyone survive up here without going mad?

Kael'thas stopped walking, took a breath, counting out the seconds as he let it out. He did it again, focusing on the breathing exercise. Abigail and Dorozhand stopped as well, watching him.

 _Leave emotion out of it_ , Kael'thas ordered himself. _You're a sorcerer, even without your magic, so think like one._

"Kael'thas," said Abigail, warning in her tone.

"Just a moment," he said.

Ner'zhul had not expected Arthas to survive, that much was certain. He had wanted a body, which would have been preferable in all ways to a gestalt. He had wanted someone connected and highly placed. Someone with authority, with access to the soldiers of the world's foremost military power. Someone who had been loved. Perhaps even someone who was young and handsome. This had been in motion a long time, Kael'thas realized. It had started before the first victim had fallen to the plague. Silently, he cursed the Isolationists. If he and Voren'thal had been permitted to travel freely, they might have figured it out.

The Lich King _was_ Arthas, Kael'thas decided. He was Arthas holding Ner'zhul down with one hand as he reached out with the other to cast a shadow over Azeroth. Believing what Dorozhand and Abigail did was the only option, save going insane. Ner'zhul was the one who had put his hands on Liera and Dorozhand. He was the one had secured his power through the threat of worldwide destruction.

That absolved Arthas of nothing, but it did mean that he needed help. If only to hold on.

"Arthas knows you two are conspiring, or that others are," Kael'thas said, looking between them. "So I think it's time for him to become part of the conspiracy."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kael and Arthas have a near miss.
> 
> Also, Kael's an Illidan apologist, quel surprise.

Arthas was waiting for them in one of Icecrown's war rooms, and his gaze was heavy as it fell on Kael'thas. Like the rest of the Citadel, the room seemed far too big, hollow and cavernous. The floor was stone, though frost and ice spread across it in patches, and Kael'thas was glad he wore boots. Girders of the strange, twisted metal that he had come to think of as ubiquitous spanned the ceiling, and from them hung the blue-black banners of the Scourge. There was a table surrounded by chairs, though Arthas didn't sit.

"How do you feel?" he asked, as Kael'thas and the others entered.

Closing his eyes, Kael'thas drew a deep breath and crossed the room to the Lich King, reaching up to rest his hands on Arthas' chest. The armor, as always, so cold it burned. "We need to talk," he said.

Arthas glanced up, at Dorozhand and Abigail, and Kael'thas sensed something pass between them.

"Don't send them away," Kael'thas said, withdrawing his hands. "This involves all of us."

"Does it now?" Arthas raised an eyebrow.

"I know who the conspirators are," Kael'thas said. He looked up at Arthas. "It's... it's everyone."

"That's quite the claim, Kael." Arthas frowned. "Explain."

"You said it yourself, on the first night. That your slaves were trying to destroy you." Kael'thas thought that perhaps he should have used a kinder word to refer to the deathknights, but it was the right one, so it was the one he used. "It's more complicated than that, Arthas. You can't be destroyed, not safely, and you and Ner'zhul can't be separated from each other, either. I think on some level, you knew, that you always knew."

Arthas frowned.

Kael'thas went on, before he could interrupt. "Ner'zhul's followers want him to be in control, so he can fulfill his promise to wipe Azeroth clean of life. To make a world of darkness they can rule over with impunity. Your loyalists want you in control, so you can keep the Scourge chained here, in Northrend."

The Lich King gazed at his Highlord, and Abigail nodded, just barely.

"And you were... what?" Arthas cast about for something to say, and Kael'thas sensed cold fury in his auras. "Just never going to tell me? Manipulate me forever? Did you think I wouldn't figure it out?"

"Arthas," she said. "We were afraid. We didn't--"

Freezing gauntlets gripped Kael'thas by his shirt, and the Lich King shoved him backwards. He managed to stay on his feet, but he stumbled. Arthas stalked across the room, towards the pair of deathknights. With one hand, he reached for Frostmourne, with the other, he pointed at the floor. "Kneel," he ordered.

The both did, Abigail tilting her chin up, to look Arthas in the eyes. Dorozhand looked away. Kael'thas recovered, hurrying forward to grab Arthas by his sword arm, the armor covering it burning his hands, the pain making him flinch. There was no chance of moving the Lich King physically, so Kael'thas tried words. "Don't, Arthas, _please_. Listen to us. Listen to _me_ , you said you wanted my help, and I want to help you."

Arthas' hand moved away from the hilt of the sword, and Kael'thas decided to interpret that as an invitation to continue.

"We need to cement your identity," Kael'thas said, and he reached up to cup the Lich King's cheek, turning Arthas to look at him. "You wanted me to stay with you, and I have, I will, but Arthas, I need _you_ stay with _me_. Don't murder your loyalists, I know you. I know you don't want to do this."

"Kael'thas--" Arthas began.

Kael'thas leaned up and kissed him, tasting ice and darkness and iron on his lips. The first contact sharply painful, the way it always was. Arthas' hands came up, to hold him, the cold biting in. Clothing offered no protection from it, and Kael'thas tried not to flinch.

"I remember when you wanted me to come back to the Alliance, because you thought if we were closer, you could somehow make me happy," Kael'thas said.

"I did think that," Arthas said, and laughed against Kael'thas' ear, "but I've realized nothing ever makes you happy, does it?"

"Now you're catching on," Kael'thas moved back a little, lest he injure himself. "Hear them out, Arthas. They did what they had to do, because they love you."

Arthas glanced down at Abigail.

"My King--" she began, and Arthas cut her off with a gesture, using one hand to indicate that she and her companion should rise. She stood, Dorozhand beside her.

"Explain yourselves," Arthas ordered. "Be quick about it."

They did, though Abigail spoke primarily, Dorozhand only commenting when it was needed. Again, Kael'thas wondered what position he held. The blood elf was held in some esteem, though he clearly wasn't the Highlord. They told the same story to Arthas that they had told him, only omitting the part where Arthas had preyed on Dorozhand and Liera. The Lich King listening, looking between them, and occasionally to Kael'thas, who would confirm that he trusted Abigail's story.

"Ner'zhul can't be destroyed?" Arthas asked, at last.

"We don't think so," Abigail said. "Only... contained. Which is what we've been doing, your Majesty."

"What you did can't be undone, Arthas." Kael'thas took a step forward. "What Abigail and Dorozhand have done to bring you back was impressive, but it was just the first step."

All three of them stared at him. Arthas curious, Abigail and Dorozhand confused and concerned. Kael'thas ignored it.

"We need to consolidate power," Kael'thas said as he began pacing. His hands shook as he gestured, he ignored that too. "Like when you allowed me to quiet the Sunwell so the Legion couldn't find us, only on a much grander scale. Do you know about the Sunfire Inquisition? What it was?"

"No," said Abigail and Arthas, almost simultaneously.

"Oh, Light." Dorozhand covered his face with one hand, and Arthas looked to him, then back to Kael'thas.

"Explain," the Lich King said.

"A few centuries after Quel'thalas was founded, Dath'remar Sunstrider was assassinated in a coup attempt. During the fallout, his children took certain... steps to ensure their Dynasty remained in power forever." Kael'thas turned to Arthas. "Aerdis Sunstrider tied himself, spiritually and magically to the Sunwell, so that only his bloodline could attune to it. His sister--"

"His sister purged the Senate," Dorozhand said, "and the Solar Circle. Their allies, the families."

"Hundreds died," Kael'thas said, not bothering to find a more polite way to put it. There had been a tendency, in Quel'thalas, to whitewash the events of the Sunfire Inquisition, and Kael'thas found it even more pointless now than he had in the past. "If not thousands. The internal wars and counter-assassinations went on for nearly four centuries."

"I've never heard of any of this," Arthas said.

"Of course not," Kael'thas said. "It happened thousands of years ago, before Lorderon even existed. Before there was even a Menethil bloodline ruling in the North. Aerdis Sunstrider was my father's great-grandfather."

"So," said the Lich King, "you want to--"

"Do exactly that," Kael'thas said. "Cement your identity. Purge Icecrown of Ner'zhul's followers." He gazed up at his captor. "They're our enemies, Arthas."

Arthas glanced to Abigail, who nodded, then to Dorozhand, who did the same. He turned back to Kael'thas.

"I'm not discounting the idea what Ner'zhul might have taught one of his minions some spell or ritual that could bring him forth again," Kael'thas said. "I need to stay close to you, the other loyalists too. You shouldn't ever be alone."

"You seem--"

"I'm at my best when I have something to do." Kael'thas stopped pacing and leaned on the table. "Arthas, if we're going to see this conspiracy through, _you_ need to be at the head of it. We need to be able to rely on you. _I_ need to know it's you that I'm with."

The Lich king barely stopped to consider, and he nodded again, in Abigail's direction. "Who else can we trust?" he asked.

"Thassarian, Tyrannus, Koltira," she said, completely comfortable with him, as though she had not been about to perish under Frostmourne's blade a few moments ago. The Highlord went on to list others, and though he didn't know most of the Lich King's officers, Kael'thas was relieved to hear the names of the other Well-Watchers, as well as Danton's, among them. "...and there is something else, your Majesty, though I'm hesitant to bring it up."

"No more lying, Abigail." Arthas frowned. "If I have enemies, speak of them."

"Kel'thuzad is Ner'zhul's ally first and yours second, if at all." She clenched one hand into a fist. "If he ever truly saved you, it was only because he wanted you as his master's vessel."

Arthas visibly hesitated, and Kael'thas sensed that the Lich King held his lead necromancer in very high regard. "Imprisonment," said Arthas, after what was far too long. It was the best they were likely to get, so Kael'thas let it drop.

"There's one last thing," Kael'thas said.

"What is it?" Arthas asked.

 _Forgive me, please_ , Kael'thas thought, before speaking. "Before I do anything else to help you, I want to see Jaina."

Arthas' expression darkened. "Why?"

"Because for all I know, you have her in another castle on the other side of the glacier." It was a lie, and Kael'thas knew it. Yesterday, Abigail had said Jaina was in Stormwind, but there was no need to point out that he'd realized it. "I want to know she's alive, and safe, because she's the one of the few people left on this miserable planet that I care about."

"You know she's not here," Arthas said, rolling his eyes. "I know you do. There's no 'other castle'. That's ridiculous."

"If there isn't, there should be no difficulty in proving it, Arthas." Kael'thas pushed himself up. "If you try to trick me with an illusion, I'll know, even with this silly collar on."

"I don't make a habit of spying on her," Arthas said.

Kael'thas narrowed his eyes. "What does _that_ mean?"

"It means I've never gone looking for her," the Lich King said. "There's nothing between us anymore. She left me. Twice."

Light, what an atrocious liar the God of Death was.

"Were you expecting me to call Jaina's judgement into question?" Kael'thas asked, crossing his arms. "The sooner I see her, the sooner we can begin."

Arthas looked to Dorozhand. "Bring one of the shades," he said.

*** *** ***

While they waited, Abigail summoned Keleseth, who looked over Kael'thas' hands and confirmed they weren't damaged or frostbitten. Kael'thas sat in one of the chairs that ringed the table in the war room and endured a lecture about not touching the Lich King's armor. 

"It's far easier than you might think to lose fingers to frostbite," the physician said. 

In the interest of not antagonizing his doctor, Kael'thas bit back on a sarcastic response. "Thank you, Keleseth," he said, "I'll keep that in mind."

"See that you do," the doctor said. "I don't want to have to attach new ones, and if I have to, they won't be any good for spellcasting."

"I can't _imagine_ that's going to be a concern," Kael'thas said, as dryly as he dared. It didn't stop Arthas from shooting him a warning look. 

Kael'thas glared right back, and Keleseth seemed to have decided he'd had enough of them both, because he rose, bowed to Arthas and left with Abigail.

"He's trying his best," said Arthas, glancing after them.

"We should sleep together," Kael'thas said, turning his gaze up towards the Lich King.

"If you wanted my attention," Arthas said, turning back instantly, "you have it. What changed?"

"You'd be shocked at how little changed," Kael'thas said. "I'm going to be the one in closest proximity if Ner'zhul ever gets free. Which makes me more committed to securing your identity than anyone."

"So you still hate me?" Arthas lips curled upwards, into a smile. 

Kael'thas loathed that more than anything. Arthas looked human when he smiled. "I derive absolutely no enjoyment from any of our interactions," he said. "I doubt having you fumbling around on top of me will change anything."

"Maybe you're wrong about that." Arthas took a step forward and leaned down over him, gripping one of the arms of the chair. Kael'thas felt caged, but he tried not to show it. 

"Not to call your experience into question, but--"

"You probably shouldn't."

"Arthas," said Kael'thas, "you've slept with one person."

"That's not entirely accurate," the Lich King said, "but I sense there's no point in bragging about it to someone whose been an adult for almost as long as Lordaeron existed."

"At least you have _some_ sense," Kael'thas retorted, even as wondered who it might have been. It was entirely possible that Arthas had had other lovers than Jaina, and he reminded himself about what Dorozhand had told him. That Arthas and Ner'zhul were different people, that Arthas had never put his hands on any of them.

"Is this actually going to help?" Arthas asked.

"It's not going to hurt," Kael'thas answered.

Arthas watched him for a moment. "You don't want to, Kael."

"I _want_ to secure your identity," he said, "and I seriously doubt that Ner'zhul was ever attracted to me."

"It's not as if--"

"It's the best you're ever going to get, Arthas." Kael'thas cut him off, glaring up at him. "Take it or leave it."

The Lich King stepped back, beckoning Kael'thas to rise with one finger.

*** *** ***

They went back to Arthas' rooms, Dorozhand and the shade forgotten, and Kael'thas closed his eyes as the door echoed shut behind them. It was not as bad as the first time, when he had thought Arthas wanted him in payment for the Sunwell. Somehow, being the one who had chosen this made it palatable. 

The Lich King began removing his armor, piece by piece. He laid it out on the chair that had already been damaged, ice and frost crawling out from beneath it, coating the surface of the wood, freezing the legs to the floor. Kael'thas watched him.

"You know I hate you," he said.

"I know," Arthas answered, without looking. He took Frostmourne off his back and laid it across the table.

"I'm not like your deathknights," Kael'thas said. "I'll keep my promises, but I'll never love you."

"I know that too," Arthas said.

"I just want us to be honest with each other," said Kael'thas. "That's all."

For a moment, Arthas was silent. He traced the patterns on the table with one hand, idly. "I'm not ready," he said.

Kael'thas raised an eyebrow. "To be with another man?"

"To be the last immortal." Arthas crossed the room to Kael'thas, and drew the smaller man close, resting his hands on the elf's shoulders. There was a shadow of gentleness in the gesture. "I'm going to find a way to restore your immortality."

Kael'thas laughed bitterly, shaking his head.

"What?" Arthas frowned, it probably hadn't been the response he'd been expecting, and Kael'thas rested both hands on the Lich King's chest.

"Illidan liked to wait until he was inside me to tell that lie," he said. "He would whisper it in my ear when I was beneath him."

"Kael--" Arthas narrowed his eyes, and his expression darkened. "I'm not lying."

"Of course you aren't," Kael'thas leaned up, to kiss the Lich King's throat. "Arthas Menethil, the Light of Dawn, the Paladin King."

"Don't mock me."

"I would never," Kael'thas said, touching over his own heart, as though wounded. "Take me to bed."

Arthas rolled his eyes. "You don't even want to."

"On the contrary," Kael'thas said, smiling wryly. "I find clumsy human sincerity endearing. I'm utterly seduced."

His feet left the floor so abruptly that Kael'thas almost felt dizzy, and he gripped at Arthas' shirt as the other man lifted him in his arms as though he weighed nothing. He cried out sharply, and Arthas laughed. 

"What are you _doing_?!" Kael'thas yelled, flailing.

"Clumsy human sincerity," Arthas said, and he left the main room, carrying Kael'thas into the bedroom, "still seduced?"

"Just imagine I'm one of those elves you read about in trashy novels," Kael'thas said, calming, and allowing Arthas to carry him. "The fictional kind, who are desperate to be bedded by humans." 

It had been the wrong thing to say, because Arthas frowned as he sat Kael'thas down on the bed. "I don't want you to be a character from a novel, Kael. I want you to be yourself."

"I want you to be yourself too. "I'll..." Kael'thas gazed up at the Lich King, and the promise spilled out, unbidden. "I'm going to find some way to kill him, Arthas. To undo what was done. To make you yourself again."

Arthas moved to lay next to him, putting one arm around Kael'thas' waist and drawing him close. Kael'thas leaned into him. Surely fucking a corpse couldn't be any worse than a demon lord, and Arthas wasn't _truly_ a corpse. He ran his hands over Arthas chest and moved to undo the other man's shirt. 

The Lich King's hands caught his. "Don't--" he began. 

"Arthas, how did you expect to accomplish this without undressing?" Kael'thas glanced up at the other man. "Are you getting cold feet?"

Arthas gave him such a sarcastic look that Kael'thas could have sworn he was still alive. 

"Such as it were," Kael'thas smirked. "There's nothing under your clothes that can surprise me. I've got six centuries worth of romantic partners behind me."

Arthas touched the center of his chest, his expression shadowed. He didn't answer. 

"Are you..." Kael'thas paused. "Not to put _too_ fine a point on it, but from what I heard from Jaina, you've got nothing to be embarrassed about. Do you want me to go first? Do you want to stop?"

"No," said Arthas, "and no."

He undid his shirt and tugged it open, sitting up a little, to slide it off his shoulders. The blue-black scar from Sylvanas' arrow Kael'thas had expected, but the Lich King had another one. A jagged, ugly scar in the center of his chest, over his heart. At first, Kael'thas assumed it was something else that had been done to Arthas to make him a deathknight, but the scar was so old that it must have come from childhood.

Kael'thas reached out to touch it, and Arthas didn't stop him.

"Oh, Arthas." Kael'thas leaned forward and rested his forehead on the other man's chest. The Lich King was cool, but not so bad as to make contact uncomfortable, and the heart that lay beneath the scar wasn't beating.

Wracking his brain, Kael'thas wondered who might have done it. It wasn't surgical, that he could tell. That someone had tried to kill Terenas' heir and no one outside of Lordaeron had heard of it seemed preposterous. Jaina must have seen it, but she had never mentioned it to Kael'thas. 

He thought back to Varian's wedding, when Arthas had stripped off his riding leathers after the hunt and Kael'thas hadn't _quite_ managed to resist the temptation to sneak a glance. The Prince had been wearing a thinner shirt of blue cloth beneath his other clothing, and at the time, Kael'thas had thought nothing of it.

"Who did this to you?" he asked. 

"It doesn't matter anymore," Arthas said, bringing one hand up to stoke Kael'thas' hair. "Calia had it worse."

Kael'thas wondered what could have been worse, and he thought back to the Investiture. The first time he had met Terenas' children. Calia had been eight at the time, older than Arthas by two years. They hadn't spoken much, but she had stuck Kael'thas as intelligent, curious, and thoughtful, even at that age. The next time he had seen her had been six years later, when he had gone to Lordaeron's Capital to commit the Sunfury Army to the war effort.

Something had changed in her, and he recalled that she had worn a dress with long sleeves and gloves, a hooded cape with a high collar. No part of her body had showed, save her face. Calia had been shadowed and subdued, quiet, except to speak to her father or Garion Spencer, the Highlord who had served Terenas before Uther. Her fingers creaked when they moved, and he'd been told that she'd been thrown during a riding practice, and the horse had trampled her hands. 

The situation had been so precarious and politically fraught that Kael'thas hadn't questioned it, but now, he felt his heart clench. How could someone have attacked Terenas Menethil's children and gotten away with it? What had happened to them? Who would have _dared_?

"Arthas--"

"I don't want to talk about it, Kael." The Lich King took Kael'thas' chin in one hand and tilted it up, leaning down to kiss him. 

This time, Kael'thas returned the kiss, winding his arms around Arthas' neck, wondering if the other man could sense his auras churning, conflicted and worried. He moved to Arthas, and the Lich King put his arms around him, drawing him in.

The collar locked around Kael'thas' neck prevented him from using magic outside of it, but in the same way it couldn't disrupt an outside source, it couldn't stop him from changing anything that already existed inside the closed loop of his body.

Arthas was not so big as Illidan was, so it was no challenge to use magic to make some small adjustments that would accommodate him and make the act easier. Kael'thas pulled back for a moment, sliding his shirt off and tossing it aside. 

"You're so skinny,"Arthas said. 

"It can't be helped," Kael'thas said. "You may as well enjoy me now, because it's only going to get worse."

"Such a hopeless romantic," Arthas murmured, against his ear.

One of his hands came up to undo Kael'thas pants. The other hand slid beneath them and Kael'thas squirmed against the coolness in the Lich King's touch as Arthas took his cock and stroked it. He hadn't been touched in so long, and his body responded to the touch shamefully, desperate to be wanted and cared for, to be treated gently. He groaned, rocking into Arthas' hands, feeling himself harden. It was wholly unexpected, Kael'thas hadn't exactly expected Arthas to worry over his partner's enjoyment of the act.

"That feels good," Kael'thas said. "Once you get used to the chill, it--"

"What's wrong with your dick?" Arthas asked, cutting him off. The Lich King was looking down between their bodies, frowning.

"There's nothing wrong with my dick," Kael'thas snapped. "Don't stop. Why are you stopping?"

"You've got a _gigantic_ scar," Arthas said. He grimaced, and then pointed it out, as though Kael'thas hadn't known it was there. "How did that even happen? It's everywhere. It must have been agonizing."

"It's not everywhere!" Kael'thas felt himself flushing, right up to the tips of his ears. This was mortifying, but it had been worse to go to Vashj and have to ask her to heal him. "It was--" he squirmed away from Arthas. "It was Illidan."

"What?" Arthas stared at him, incredulous.

"With his..." Kael'thas sighed. "With his fangs."

"What?" Arthas repeated himself, and blinked. "But... _how_?"

"Surely there's no need for me to draw you a diagram, Arthas." Kael'thas rolled his eyes. "I refuse to believe you can't figure out what we were doing."

"Don't be a brat," Arthas said. "I know what you were doing, it's just that compared to you, Illidan must huge. He was even bigger than I am, so I can't see how he had so much trouble getting your dick in his mouth. There should have been plenty of room."

"As if you've ever sucked dick, Arthas."

"I haven't," Arthas said, "and I was nervous at first, but at this point, I'm pretty confident I'll be better at it then the Betrayer. How could I not be?"

"I don't believe you're doing this, _right now_ \--"

Arthas looked Kael'thas up and down, curiously, and his gaze made the elf feel exposed, which was absurd. "Other than your lip, was this the only other time he hurt you?" the Lich King asked.

"What!?"

"I'm serious, Kael." Arthas peered at him, and he pointed down, between their bodies. "Was this the only other time?"

"Are you a paladin now?" Kael'thas glared up at him. "This is a hell of a time to decide you want to counsel me."

"Answer the damn question."

"He never had his ghouls beat me until I lost consciousness," Kael'thas said, hotly. He tapped one fingernail against the collar, and it resounded with a light, metallic 'ting'. "He never chained me up in one of _these_ because he thought I belonged to him. He never kept me locked in his bedroom."

"I--"

Kael'thas didn't allow Arthas to finish. He wondered if he should even fight with him. Securing the Lich King's identity was what mattered, not Kael'thas' comfort or personal feelings, and yet he couldn't quite dismiss them. Arthas had no shortage of followers who rightly or wrongly, loved him. If the bastard wanted adoration, he could go to them. He had said he wanted Kael'thas to be himself, and in his heart, Kael'thas knew the Lich King had been right earlier.

He was never happy. Kael'thas couldn't even remember what it felt like.

"I refuse to let you entertain this sick fantasy for even _one second_ , Arthas." Kael'thas hissed the words out. "I won't participate in it. You didn't _save_ me from Illidan, how dare you even _consider_ that."

Arthas turned away, moving away, to lay on his back, hands folded across his stomach.

Kael'thas raised an eyebrow. "Going somewhere?"

"It's weird now," Arthas said.

Having to admit that Arthas was right twice in one day was infuriating, but Light, it really _was_ weird now. Kael'thas moved away too, turning on his side, readjusting himself and fastening his pants. Silence rose up between them, like a wall.

"What are you doing?" Kael'thas asked, after what he supposed had been a long time. He didn't turn to face the Lich King.

"Looking for Calia," Arthas said. "It's what I do while you're sleeping."

 _I hope you never find her_ , Kael'thas thought bitterly, and not long afterwards, sleep closed over him.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm taking a lot of liberties with what went down during the Second War, but Blizzard started it, soooooooo.....
> 
> Also, this Second War Saga goes on for a LOT longer, but I had to stop when I hit 7k words.

When Kael'thas and Voren'thal arrived, Terenas and his Highlord were fighting with each other. 

Kael'thas had known Terenas since he had attended the human King's coronation, some sixty years ago. Terenas had been barely eleven, his father having died abruptly when the carriage carrying him and Queen Consort had been overturned in a driving accident. Terenas had been visiting with relatives at the time, and was spared. 

There was little in the way of a frame of reference, but Kael'thas had always thought of Terenas Menethil as the opposite of his own father. The King of Lordaeron had a number of advisors, and there were even elected Senators who were imbued with significant power to run the massive nation, but Terenas handled a great deal of the minutiae involved in governing Lordaeron himself. 

He had been a hands-on ruler; touring the country regularly, meeting with citizen groups and mayors and guild leaders. A number of foreign diplomats lived in the Captial, with most of them housed in the palace itself (though the Solar Circle did not allow representatives from Quel'thalas). Lordaeron had extensive diplomatic ties, and Terenas worked diligently to maintain them. He had studied law, and he often personally reviewed the judgements of the lower courts. Under his rule, the basic rights of citizens had expanded greatly. 

All in all, as far as the line of Menethil Kings went, Kael'thas had been quite fond of the man.

"Kael'thas," said Terenas, nodding in his direction. "You're finally here. We need Voren'thal to settle something for us."

Garion Spencer, the Highlord, rolled his eyes. He was barely fifty, but already showing signs of being unable to keep up with a man twenty years his senior. The two men wore their armor, and both were armed. With them was Ambassador Stonehew, from Ironforge. At his full height, the dwarf stood only to the center of the human King's chest, though he was packed so thickly with muscle that he probably outweighed Terenas and Garion put together. Stonehew was beginning to get fat, too much beer, bread, and meat, and not enough rough living in the hills of Dun Morogh.

Terenas looked to Voren'thal. "Is the world ending?" he asked.

"Not for another ten, perhaps fifteen years," Voren'thal replied, without any hint of humor in his voice. 

"Good man," said Terenas. "Am I going to die tomorrow?"

"Not tomorrow, your majesty."

"Then kindly tell Spencer to fuck off and stop worrying about me," Terenas said, adjusting his sword belt. Stonehew snorted with laughter, and tried (and failed) to pretend he was coughing. Poor Garion looked exhausted and put upon. 

Voren'thal actually opened his mouth to respond, but before he could say anything, Kael'thas intervened. 

"Terenas," he said. "If this is why you called us here from Quel'thalas, I'm going to be extraordinarily cross."

"It's not," said Terenas, gesturing to Kael'thas. "Walk with me, Kael'thas. Tell me what the Solar Circle said."

The human King started walking, setting a brisk pace. Kael'thas and Stonehew fell into step beside him, Garion and Voren'thal followed behind.

"They outright refuse to commit to any external military action," Kael'thas said. "They don't consider this... 'Horde' to be a threat to Quel'thalas."

"Fuckers," muttered Stonehew, under his breath.

"Normally I would seize upon any opportunity to argue with the dwarves," said Kael'thas, "but in this case it's entirely correct."

"Just once," said Terenas, sharply, "they should try not watching the world burn. To see if they like it."

They headed out into the courtyard, a pair of bodyguards moving to following the little group. All across the keep, there was frenzy of activity. Messengers hurrying back and forth, stablehands readying horses, the rings of armorers plying their trade. Terenas paused and surveyed it, taking in everything.

Kael'thas glanced at him. "Terenas, may I ask why you're armed?"

"I'm going to war," Terenas said. "How else should I dress for it?"

"Then I feel it may have been wrong to be so harsh with Lord Spencer," Kael'thas said. "The front lines are no place for a man of seventy years."

" _Thank you_ ," said Garion, from behind them.

"Apparently they're no place for elves, either." Terenas raised an eyebrow at Kael'thas.

"Someday, Terenas, I will have to explain to your son that the reason I'm so bitter all the time is that you used up all my goodwill." Kael'thas crossed his arms. "If I could commit Quel'thalas to your alliance, I would, but only my father can veto the decisions of the Solar Circle."

"...and he is?"

"Eternally indisposed," said Kael'thas.

"Unfortunate." Terenas shook his head. "...and from what I hear, you were contrarian and backbiting long before I was ever born."

"Slander," said Kael'thas. "Terenas, I beg you to reconsider. Your generals and officers are perfectly capable."

Terenas stepped forward, and touched the center of Kael'thas' chest, drawing closer. The human glanced back, to Voren'thal.

"Speak freely," Kael'thas said. "Either Voren'thal hears you now, or I tell him later."

"Stormwind has fallen," Terenas said, his voice low and grim.

Kael'thas felt off balance, and he looked up at Terenas. "How?"

"The orcs. It's been entirely overrun, the outlying provinces stand no chance." Terenas shook his head. "The survivors are headed north, but they aren't going to make it."

"Llane?" Kael'thas asked.

"We don't know," said Terenas. "It's impossible to get news, but it's hard to imagine that he didn't go down with his ship, so to speak."

"Even more impossible in Quel'thalas," Kael'thas said. He'd been there for weeks, trying to argue for Terenas' alliance, and being stonewalled at every turn. "Where is the Guardian? How could Medivh have allowed this to happen?"

"It would seem..." Terenas' expression darkened. "It would seem the Guardian is the one behind all of this."

Kael'thas closed his eyes, his thoughts and auras reeling. This close, he wondered if Terenas sensed them, though he knew the human was ungifted. He knew Voren'thal could, he didn't even need to look to see the expression on his oldest friend's face. "What are your intentions here, Terenas?"

Terenas withdrew his hand. "I'm taking the army to engage the main thrust of the Horde advance. We need to delay them, turn them away from the refugees, give the people fleeing from Stormwind a chance to make it to the coast. Daelin's going to pick them up in ships."

"Terenas Menethil," said Kael'thas. "You are _seventy _years old, and Daelin Proudmoore is a pirate."__

____

____

"Seventy-one." Terenas huffed, offended. "And when the Tirian Royal Navy does it, they call it 'privateering'."

Kael'thas rolled his eyes. "I hardly approve of--"

"Sixty years we've known each other," Terenas said. "Has kicking up a fuss ever worked before?"

"I suppose not," Kael'thas admitted, begrudgingly. "Since you won't listen to reason, I'm coming with you."

Terenas raised an eyebrow. "Would the Circle approve?"

"Fuck the Circle, Terenas." Kael'thas glanced southward. "If the Guardian is with the orcs, you can't fight him. You'll need me for that."

"Your highness," Voren'thal said, warning in his tone. "You can't fight him either."

"I can't _win_ ," said Kael'thas, "but I can _fight_ him. Perhaps even delay him long enough for this suicidal plan to work."

"Good show, boy." Terenas smiled. "I knew there was some fight in you. We're leaving at dawn."

*** *** ***

Kael'thas had been to war before.

When he had been sixty years old, there had been a serious incursion of gnolls into the southern part of Quel'thalas, and with his father eternally absent, it had fallen to him to go with the Farstriders to put it down. Four hundred years ago, two of the High Houses had gone to war with each other over a botched trade deal, and along with Dorozhand, Kael'thas had been forced to put a somewhat bloody end to the internal war. Ten years before Terenas had been born, there was a border clash with the Amani trolls. It had been costly and brutal, but the Amani had been repelled, as they always were.

This was going to be different. Kael'thas didn't need to be psychic to sense it.

There had been no time to properly prepare, and Kael'thas knew that if he had returned to Quel'thalas, he would have been curtailed and restricted by the Solar Circle until rejoining Terenas was impossible. Instead, he was resolved to seek forgiveness, instead of permission.

The humans had gotten him a horse, and found some riding leathers and a cloak that fit him, and though Kael'thas found them crudely made, he didn't complain. Voren'thal, who was in eternally poor health, traveled behind, with the aides and servants, at a pace that more suited him.

Terenas' son, Arthas, had been left behind, protesting at the treatment.

"It's no place for children," Terenas had said, and Kael'thas had agreed.

He rode alongside Terenas, his hood up. Not so much out of a desire for secrecy, but knowing that once word got to Quel'thalas about what he was doing, Dorozhand would surely intervene politically and summon him back. Garion rode at his King's other side, and Stonehew alongside the Highlord.

They made good time through Lordaeron, the roads well-maintained and cleared in advance for the King and his army. In towns, throngs of citizens lined the streets, waving and cheering, and Kael'thas was convinced that they didn't understand the enormity of what was happening. Occasionally, Terenas would approve the request of local militias to join them, but for the most part, he cautioned them to stay at their posts. An army marched on its stomach, and a larger army needed more supplies, as well as a greater train of attendants and aides, who would themselves be vulnerable.

According to Stonehew, Ironforge was having problems of its own. The orcs had attacked the steam trains, and worse, they had collapsed the Granite Pillar Pass, the main point of entrance and egress from Khaz Modan. Magni was committed to the alliance, and was trying to join them, but the dwarves had no ships, and couldn't move across open ground the way humans could.

"Goin' ta have the pass cleared in a week," Stonehew said, when they were stopped for the night. "A wee bit longer maybe. Till then, we be on our own."

"Damn it all," Terenas said, "and the bloody Gilneans have decided that the orcs are our problem."

"The Alteraki too," Garion said. "Frankly, we're lucky Daelin recognizes the threat."

Kael'thas was only half listening to the other men in the command tent, his magical senses cast out over the landscape in a net that reached for hundreds of miles as he searched for the refugees. He held his hands up in front of him, feeling the currents of magic, letting the power of the natural leylines flow over him. Stormwind was a distant nation, and Kael'thas knew none of its citizens personally. It made it difficult to try and feel for their auras, but still, a massive train of refugees shouldn't be that difficult to locate.

The orcs, their 'Horde' as they called it, were blindingly obvious to his senses. They weren't even trying to hide from him, their leaders clearly didn't care what he saw. Still, their numbers were so great that it was difficult to process, and quantity possessed a quality all its own. 

Kael'thas wondered where had they come from. How had so many amassed so quickly? He despaired at how easily the orcs were crossing open ground, especially if the dwarves were cut off. Even if no more of the invaders had remained behind to secure their conquest of Stormwind, they outnumbered Terenas' army by more than five to one. 

The orc advance seemed to be split into three main prongs, and among the closest group, Kael'thas sensed another sorcerer. The orc's power burned and knifed at his senses, and he didn't press. 

Upsetting.

"Anything?" Terenas asked, and Kael'thas worried he'd been lost inside himself for a long time.

"I'm trying," Kael'thas murmured, counting the seconds as he began a breathing exercise. "Divination is not my strong suit. Setting things on fire is."

Magical senses curved through trees and over hills, seeking outwards to the limits of what was possible. Kael'thas felt his hands shake, but ignored it. He reached up, to the border of the sea, and then moved down, as though he were letting out a sigh. Wind stirred his hair, and he tried to hold steady. He sensed the other sorcerer again, watching, coiled like a serpent, waiting to strike. 

Whoever he was, he knew Kael'thas was looking.

It didn't matter, he would deal with it later.

"Kael'thas," said Terenas. "For the Light's sake, stop. You're hurting yourself."

"I'm fine," Kael'thas whispered. "I can find them. They're out there."

"Poor bastards could be dead," Stonehew said, and Kael'thas ignored him.

He found them as he soared up the side of a mountain, far off track from where Terenas and his generals had expected them to be. Cascading downwards, Kael'thas circled back, to get the measure. "I see them," he said. "They're... I think they're just outside Khaz Modan's border, heading for the sea."

"Light!" Stonehew nearly upturned the table they men sat around as he erupted from his seat and rushed over. "Describe it! Maybe Magni can reach them!"

"They're following some sort of road. In the west." Kael'thas started to loose his grip on the magic, focusing on too much at once, red blotches clouded his vision. "It's carved out, not finished. The rock is black-grey. It's formed in layers--"

"Aye!" Stonehew clapped him on the back and Kael'thas nearly fell over. "That's tha Stone Gate Highway!" He looked to Terenas. "Old buildin' project, never finished."

Kael'thas released the spell, gasping for breath, Garion and Terenas came forward to steady him, easing him into a chair.

"Don't fuss over me," Kael'thas snapped.

"I'm the King of Lorderon," Terenas returned. "I can do anything I damn well please." He reached for a skin and handed it to Kael'thas. "Drink some water."

Kael'thas obeyed, though the liquid in the waterskin was, to his senses, foul and unclean. It wasn't technically _harmful_ , so he didn't complain. They had real problems, and the men and women fleeing Stormwind were surely suffering worse. He felt something on his face, and touched his nose. It was bleeding, and futilely, he tried to wipe the blood away with his hands. Garion must have noticed, because the Highlord brought him a cloth, and Kael'thas took it gratefully, holding it to stop the flow.

"We can send runners ta Magni," Stonehew said. "Daelin too, get that bastard ta reroute, pick 'em up right where they're gonna hit the coast."

Terenas nodded, and he went to the flap of the tent, pulling it back, holding up his hand to summon someone.

"Terenas," said Kael'thas, setting the cloth aside and hoping his face was clean. "Wait."

The human King paused and looked back at him.

"If I found them, it means the orcs have too, the invaders have a sorcerer with them." Kael'thas set the waterskin aside as well. "They may know we're coming to intercept them, their sorcerer was watching me watching. Your army is too big to hide, and he knows where we are. Perhaps the orcs allowed the refugees to get this far because they hoped to draw you out. We could be walking into a trap."

The two men and one dwarf stared him down. "Kael'thas," said Terenas, firmly. "We won't abandon those people."

"No," said Kael'thas, "of course not. You can't. We can't. _Arkhana, arkhana_."

" _Sthelhe_ ," answered Stonehew, in dwarven. " _Sthelhe_."

Terenas looked between them. "Either of you care to translate?"

"It means magic fer magic," said Stonehew.

"...and steel for steel," Kael'thas said. "Go and halt the main advance, Terenas. I'll kill the sorcerer."

"You said he was with them." Terenas let the tent flap close, the thought to summon a messenger forgotten. "With the orcish Horde."

"I did, didn't I?" Kael'thas rose from where he sat. "No matter. It's the smallest prong of the advance. I can handle it myself."

"Alone?" asked Garion, incredulous. 

"I'll need a warhorse," Kael'thas admitted, "and a sword."

*** *** ***

Kael'thas took Felo'melorn off his belt and wrapped it carefully in cloth. 

"This was forged in the West," he said as he handed it over to Terenas, neglecting to mention that he had taken it from the vaults on Quel'danas without permission. "Before the first human was born. My ancestor carried it across the sea, after the world split in two and our great kingdom fell. If I don't return..." Kael'thas paused. "Keep it. A symbol of our friendship."

Terenas took the weapon carefully, handling it as though it were made of porcelain and not orichalcum. The blade could not cut flesh, but Kael'thas knew Felo'melorn was more resilient than the human feared.

"Voren'thal is far more precious," said Kael'thas. "Don't allow my father or Dorozhand blame my actions on him."

"Kael'thas," said Terenas. "Reconsider. We'll think of something else."

"Return to the Capital, and I will." Kael'thas hardened his expression. "We're exposed so long as their sorcerer is alive."

"Is it the Guardian?" Terenas asked, as Garion brought one of the warhorses up through the camp.

"I don't think so." Kael'thas spoke the words honestly, as he watched Garion approach. "Medivh's power is incredible, but unsubtle. I'm certain I would have been able to sense him. This sorcerer is different, far weaker than the Guardian, but still dangerous."

Lordaeron's warhorses were the best in the world, and it was no exaggeration to say they were stronger than oxen and smarter than ravens or dogs. The one that Garion led was huge, far taller than Kael'thas was. The horse stood over six and a half feet at the shoulder, and it was already saddled and ready for riding.

Stonehew had not come to see him off. The dwarf had left earlier, with the messenger from Lordaeron in tow. While it was simple enough to send a message to Daelin, Stonehew had warned them that with the passes closed, a human would never make it across the mountains without a guide. He had promised that he would inform Magni and return, and Kael'thas hoped he would succeed.

As a pair of servants readied the horse, Terenas handed the cloth that held Felo'melorn to Garion, and undid his own sword belt. He drew the blade, checked the edge, and offered the belt and weapon up to Kael'thas.

"That's one of your house swords," Kael'thas said, without reaching for it. "It belongs to Arthas."

"Then bring it back to me, so I can give it to him."

"Terenas--"

"Has kicking up a fuss ever worked before, Kael'thas?"

"I suppose not." Kael'thas reached out and took the belt, blade, and scabbard. The sword was actually part of a pair, though Kael'thas would not have been able to swing the longsword that traditionally accompanied it. The blade was a little longer than his forearm and the hilt was sized for a human man's grip, but the balance was excellent, so at least he'd be able to use it properly. He secured it around his waist, and stepped into Garion's hands, letting the Highlord boost him into the saddle.

"How long?" asked Terenas.

"Four days," said Kael'thas, wrapping the reins around one hand. "A week, perhaps. Don't wait for me, trust that I'll kill this other sorcerer and take his eyes off your army. Your attack on the main advance can take them completely blindsided. Lord Spencer, does this horse have a name?"

Garion nodded. "Starheart, your highness."

"I like it," Kael'thas said. He saluted, fist to chest, the way it was done in Lordaeron, and then he turned the horse and rode away.

*** *** ***

Kael'thas crossed Lordaeron like a shadow, and on the second day of riding, the first winter snows fell. The chill didn't bother him, though he wore no protective clothing. It would need to be far colder for an elf to freeze to death.

He carried nothing with him but the sword. Anything else would have been unnecessary. Food and water could be conjured, though it wasn't healthy to rely on such fare as a replacement for true sustenance. In time, the body would grow sick and degrade, but taken in moderation, eating conjured food wouldn't have any lingering effects.

It was the same with Starheart. Lordaeron's warhorses required a higher quality of feed, but Garion had said that if it was only a few days, it was fine to allow him to graze. The best magic was subtle, and Kael'thas used it here, making himself lighter, to lift the burden from his mount. He suspected, however, that the warhorse was used to a far heavier load. A knight in full armor probably weighed three times what Kael'thas did.

On the third day, he approached Khaz Modan, skirting back and forth across the border as he headed for the smallest, but most dangerous prong of the orcish advance towards Lordaeron. In the distance, when he cast his senses out, he could feel the dwarves working desperately to clear the passes. See the torn iron of the destroyed train tracks. Hear the land singing out in pain.

Light, these invaders were poisoning the world just by being in it.

Worse, was that the Solar Circle cared little either way, so long as it was only humans who were dying.

At nightfall on the third day, and Kael'thas pulled the shadows around himself like veil, vanishing from sight as he approached the orcish camp. He rode right past their sentries, barely a few feet away, but they took no notice of him.

Kael'thas, on the other hand, took full notice of them.

The shortest orcs stood over seven feet in height, and they were thick and heavy with muscle, like the dwarves were. They had jutting tusks, like boars or pigs, but sharp teeth, like wolves. Similar to Kael'thas himself, the orcs wore no protective clothing. A few wore scraps of armor, or the furs of beasts he didn't recognize, but none of them were dressed to guard against the winter's chill, and even in the dead of night, none of them seemed bothered by it.

Their skin was green, with some variation. A few had mottled patterns on their arms and backs, while others were darker or lighter in hue. Many of them had tattoos, or ritual scars, though none of it appeared to be writing, and Kael'thas wondered if the invaders even had a written language. They seemed undisciplined, crude. Banners were draped over the tents, and although Kael'thas didn't recognize any of the symbols, he committed them to memory as he led his horse through the camp.

Curiously, he didn't see any women.

In Quel'thalas, no distinction was drawn over who could be a warrior and who couldn't, and for millennia, women had fought alongside men. In Lorderaron, it was somewhat rarer, but the great nation had a fair number of lady knights, and while it was considered somewhat improper, women were also permitted to join both the army and militia. The Light knew no preference for sex, so half of all channelers were women, and when Loraderon went to war, their priests and physicians did too. All of Ironforge's best snipers were women, and from what Kael'thas understood, like the elves, the dwarves made no judgements about who should fight and who shouldn't.

So yes, that was curious.

He passed between the tents, resting one hand on the hilt of Terenas' sword, heading towards the sorcerer.

This orc was different than the others, though he was no less physically impressive. He wore a mantle of coarse black cloth, and the furs of wolves, draped over his shoulders. Charms and fetishes hung from leather cords that passed through it, the skulls of animals, carved or blackened bones, bits of crudely shaped metal and glass.

Kael'thas found such tokens undignified, and he made to draw the sword.

They would see him in a few seconds, the invisibility would break after he cut the orc down, but in the confusion, he would fight his way free of the camp and flee.

As he approached, the orc turned to face him, and red eyes gazed up at him. The sorcerer spoke, the Southern human dialect.

"I can see you, you know."

Kael'thas hesitated, gripping the reins, pulling Starheart back. The horse snorted, and his hooves scraped the ground, anxious. Orcs ringed the center of the camp now, and Kael'thas cursed himself. All that talk about not wanting Terenas to walk into a trap, and he'd gone and done it himself. If he lived, which seemed unlikely, he resolved that he wouldn't underestimate the orcs again.

Reaching up, Kael'thas threw back his hood, releasing the invisibility spell at the same time. The orcs gawked at him, they had never seen an elf before, and Kael'thas didn't like the way the sorcerer's eyes lingered.

"You aren't a human," the sorcerer said. "Or a dwarf. What type of creature are you?"

"My name is Kael'thas Sunstrider, an immortal, and I am the ruler of a kingdom older than the continent you stand on." It was technically a lie, but it wasn't as if his father would come here and dispute it. "Leave this place, invaders. Take your war from our shores and let us have peace."

The orc burst out laughing, though Kael'thas kept his expression distant and cold. He drew his auras back, until they were unreadable.

"Is there something you find amusing?" he asked.

"You sound like a fucking draenei," the orc said, grinning, "and there are none of _them_ left." The orc's eyes were on him, the gaze disrespectful. "Plenty of half-breeds, though."

Kael'thas stared him down, refusing to dignify that with an answer. Protective magic shimmered around the orc, obvious to elven senses, the spells crude, but effective.

"Your human friends are walking into a trap," said the orc. "We're going to crush them between the mountains and sea."

"I would imagine," said Kael'thas, as haughtily as possible, "that your leaders will find it troublesome to draw that noose closed after I cut out their eyes."

One of the orcs behind the sorcerer said something in his own language, the words crude and guttural. A dark current of laughter ran through the circle of men ringing the camp.

"He wants to know if you're a woman," the sorcerer said.

Kael'thas shifted his weight in the saddle. "Tell him to come over here and check."

The moment sorcerer turned his head to speak, Kael'thas urged Starheart forward, rising to stand in the stirrups. He leapt from the horse's back onto the orc, calling arcane power into one hand to disrupt the orc's layers of protective spells, and with the other, drawing Terenas' sword while he was still in midair. He probably weighed half of what the other sorcerer did, but the orc hadn't been expecting it, and the blade plunged into his neck, blood spurting everywhere, steaming hotly in the snow and dirt. As the orc toppled backwards, his screams turning to wet gurgles, Kael'thas wrenched the blade the rest of the way through, severing the sorcerer's head.

In the same moment, Starheart hit the orc who had spoken, bowling him over and trampling him, one hoof coming down to crush his skull, brain matter spilling out in the impact. Kael'thas scrambled to his feet, drawing fire into his hands as he cast two spells at once and hurled them into the crowd of astonished, gaping orcs.

There was absolute chaos.

Several of the tents caught fire instantly, as did a great number of the orcs he had hit. They howled and screamed, trying to put out the flames, but Kael'thas knew any effort was in vain. Magical fire was practically a living thing, and it existed for only one reason, to consume. Holding the sword tightly in one hand, he ran, whistling to Starheart as he leapt over the dead sorcerer's body and bolted through the camp. Kael'thas worried that the horse might panic, but even chaos and fire didn't spook Starheart, and he trampled two more orcs as he galloped after Kael'thas.

He darted between two of the tents, one burning and one not, an orc taking a swipe at him with a notched, ugly axe. The blow barely missed him, tearing his riding leathers, and sending him scrambling to one side. The orc was half again as tall as Kael'thas was, and had probably twice his reach. He doubted it was possible to win such a fight, and when the orc raised his weapon again, Kael'thas stabbed him in the ankle. The orc crashed down into the snow, unbalanced, and Kael'thas struck out with the blade again, cutting the invader's hand off.

He stopped for a second to deliver a killing blow and almost wished he hadn't. There had been yet more orcs who hadn't come to watch the spectacle of his death, and those ones were trying to kill Kael'thas now. Leaving the dead orc, he sprinted through the camp, Starheart alongside him. The warhorse could have easily outpaced him, but knew to stay close to his rider. Every time he had a moment, Kael'thas kicked out or slashed free the supports of the tents, setting them ablaze as they fell. Fire couldn't hurt him, the heart he shared with Al'ar's would shield him from it, no matter how far apart they were, but he made sure there was a path for Starheart. The warhorse was his only chance of escaping.

Before, he had needed Garion's help to get into Starheart's saddle, but desperation was a hell of a drug, and as they ran, Kael'thas caught the warhorse's reins and pulled himself up as though he'd done it a thousand times. He was astonished with himself, but there was no stopping to marvel at it.

The orcs he hadn't maimed or killed in the initial blast had recovered, and Kael'thas heard them calling to each other in their own language. Needing no further urging, he rode towards the edge of the camp. Something was moving just beyond it, and as Kael'thas' horse jumped the crude barrier surrounding it, he came face to face with a wolf the same size as his warhorse. Its fangs flashed out, tearing into Starheart's shoulder before Kael'thas managed to recover and cast light into its eyes. It shrieked and jerked backwards, thrashing and howling in the snow.

"Go!" Kael'thas urged, trusting the warhorse to understand. "Our lives depend on it!"

Even injured, the Starheart ran as a bird might fly, and the encampment vanished into the distance. For a single brief moment, Kael'thas thought he might have gotten away with it.

It was then that he heard the wolves howling, and glancing backwards, he saw the flash of fangs and red eyes.

Light, the orcs were _riding_ those things, and there wasn't just one of them.

Exactly how many were pursuing him, he couldn't say, and Kael'thas had no desire to stop and count. They would overtake him soon enough, even a warhorse couldn't run forever, and Starheart was injured and bleeding. Already slowing down.

 _Fuck_ , thought Kael'thas. Human profanity seemed the appropriate response here, and he pulled on the reins, signalling Starheart to stop. If nothing else, he decided, the warhorse deserved better than being run to death, and Kael'thas wheeled around, to face the orcs. They didn't slow, and as they bore down on him, he opened one hand and readied a spell.

Something whistled past his ear, and Kael'thas didn't realize it was an arrow until it hit the orc leading the charge in the eye. For a moment, the green rider barreled onward, as though he weren't already a corpse, and then, as if the archer was doing it simply to show off, a second arrow hit the orc in his other eye, sending him spinning off his mount. He hit the ground with a spectacular impact, kicking up a wave of dirt and snow.

Kael'thas chanced a look behind him.

It was Alleria.

She rode a hawkstrider, coming up over the crest of a hill, a dozen other Rangers behind her. Her mount had no tack, because such a thing would have been pointless, a Ranger rode with both hands free. Before the orc she had killed had hit the ground, she had readied, fired, and killed again. Between shots, she gestured, and her Rangers loosed a volley, death raining down on the pursuing orcs. The last of them turned to flee, but it was pointless, and the Rangers shot them down.

Kael'thas stared at her, gawking, as though he were a human who had never seen an elven woman before.

Alleria rode over and nodded to him, as casually as she would if they had encountered each other while strolling through the Silvermoon Palace gardens. " _Atamir_ Kael'thas."

"How--" Kael'thank blinked. "Alleria!? How can you possibly _be_ here?! How did you find me?"

The Ranger-General seemed confused, and she tilted her head. "We've... been searching for you for nearly a month, Prince Kael'thas, almost since you left Quel'thalas for Lordaeron. Voren'thal sent me a message weeks ago, he said you were near the borders of Khaz Modan, and that you were in grave danger."

"Voren'thal..." Kael'thas sighed. "Of course he did, because he's psychic. Why didn't I see you?"

"Were you looking for us, your highness? We were crossing the highland plains."

No wonder he hadn't sensed them.

"Crossing into Stromgarde?" Kael'thas raised an eyebrow. "With whose permission?"

" _Atamir_." Alleria shot him a look. "If you're doing fine on your own, I can return to my sisters in Quel'thalas."

"I'm sorry," Kael'thas said, rubbing his forehead with one hand. "Ranger-General, please, forgive my behavior. It's been a long day, I'm immensely grateful that you've come, and I can honestly say that I've never been happier to see you."

"It's good to see you too, _Atamir_." Alleria smiled, and then glanced in the direction of the dead orcs. "Are there more of these creatures? How many did you have to kill to make them so angry with you?"

"A great many more," said Kael'thas, "and I'm not sure. Two with my hands, perhaps another fifty, with fire and magic."

She nodded, approvingly.

"My horse is injured. He saved my life, he needs a healer." Kael'thas swung down from the saddle, and felt his legs shake as he hit the ground. He ignored it, determined to stay strong in front of Alleria. "Do you have a spare hawkstrider? I have to rejoin Terenas and the others."

"I'm afraid," said Alleria, "Lord Sunspear is not going to allow that."

*** *** ***

The Ranger-General had not come alone, and when Kael'thas approached the tiny elven encampment, he felt his heart clench. The worst of it was that Lord Sunspear wasn't even here for him, not really.

Alleria held back the flap of the tent for him, and Kael'thas passed under it. She waited outside.

Dorozhand Sunspear waited for him, and the Watcher at the Well did not look pleased. As Kael'thas approached, Dorozhand rose from where he sat, gripped the wayward Prince by the front of his riding leathers and slapped him across the face so hard it made Kael'thas' head spin. Combined with the flight from the orcs, as well as not truly eating or sleeping in days, the blow staggered him, and when Dorozhand released him, he fell. Kael'thas tasted blood in his mouth, and he spat.

"Don't," said Dorozhand. "That's disgusting."

"Light forfend you should have to see all the filthy habits I've picked up from the humans," Kael'thas said, his hands shook, and he pushed himself up.

"It's not going to be a concern in the future," Dorozhand said. "The Solar Circle knows about this little adventure, and it's going to hold a motion to have you confined to Quel'danas for the rest of your life. I hope you're pleased with yourself."

"Immensely," Kael'thas snapped, wiping his hands on the front of his riding leathers to spite Dorozhand and wondering if Garion Spencer ever beat Terenas' children. Probably not.

"You never think of anyone save yourself, Kael'thas."

"As if _you_ think of anything beyond placating the nobility." Kael'thas rolled his eyes, and fought the urge to hold his bruised cheek. "Did the gardens outside one of the High Estates wither, and you need me to sort out the Sunwell's leylines feeds again? Or perhaps I'm required to reset the weather spells? Light above us, Dorozhand, what if the orcs had managed to rape me to death? Then you'd have to actually speak to my father instead of me every time something went wrong, and we can't have that--"

"Did you even _consider_ your father? Or me? Or Voren'thal? Or how any of us might feel if we lost you?"

"Not even momentarily," Kael'thas said, petulant, "and my best guess would be 'nothing'."

"Kael'thas--"

"No, wait, perhaps you would feel inconvenienced. Am I close?"

"Kael'thas!"

"Lord Sunspear."

"The disruptions in the day-to-day running of Quel'thalas that are caused by your little absences are not a joke," Dorozhand said. "Getting yourself killed for the sake of humans who are just going to die anyways is not a joke!"

"Terenas Menethil is my friend," Kael'thas said, his voice rising, "and I don't exist to serve the convenience of nobles who have nothing better to do than host parties on their estates while the world burns down around us!"

"It's the _only_ reason you exist, Kael'thas." Dorozhand's expression was dire. "It's why your father relented and allowed me to cut you from your mother's corpse."

It had been far less painful to be slapped, and Kael'thas clenched his fists.

"Dorozhand--" Kael'thas began, and then stopped, taking a deep breath and then letting it out as he got his thoughts in order. "Understand this, I will _not_ return to Quel'thalas. Not with you, and not ever, if the Solar Circle believes they can imprison me on Quel'danas."

"You can't simply ignore--"

"I'm the Crown Prince," Kael'thas said trying to mimic Terenas' manner of somehow being authoritative and flippant at the same time, "I can do whatever I damn well please. If I'm needed in my homeland, have my father send word to me. Until then, I have business in Lordaeron."

Kael'thas turned, threw the flap of the tent aside, and stormed out. Outside, Alleria was waiting, and a short distance away, her Farstriders tended to Starheart. There was no doubt that the Ranger-General had heard everything, and Kael'thas couldn't bear to look at her. Instead, he walked straight ahead. 

" _Atamir_ ," she said, from behind him. 

Kael'thas felt his shoulders sag. He was exhausted, both magically and physically. He doubted he had another fight in him today. "Yes, General?"

"I'll be brief." Alleria came to his side. "If you intend to rejoin King Menethil, you'll need bodyguards. Even the roads are dangerous."

"If I return to Quel'thalas to get some," he said, "I won't be allowed to leave. Perhaps ever again."

"Then how fortunate for you, _Atamir_ , that my Farstriders and I are already here."

"Alleria, please." Kael'thas looked to her. "I've already dragged poor Voren'thal into this--"

"That's completely agreeable," she said. "The _o'shari_ and I get along with each other quite pleasantly. I'll be glad to see him."

"The Solar Circle is going to be furious with you."

Alleria met his gaze. "The Solar Circle is going to be even more furious if these orcs burn down Quel'thalas. You said there were more."

Kael'thas nodded to her. "Even if no more exist than the ones who are coming, they outnumber Terenas' armies by five to one. Stormwind has fallen, it's overrun. Terenas thinks that Llane Wrynn is dead."

"Is the world ending?" she asked. 

"We have some time," Kael'thas said, and smirked. "Voren'thal says it won't be for another ten or fifteen years."

"Then there's nothing to worry about." Alleria touched his arm. "As soon as you and Starheart can travel, we'll go to see King Menethil."

*** *** ***

Voren'thal as always, had been right, and Kael'thas woke from the dream almost as tired as he had been when he fell asleep. He missed Terenas mournfully, Alleria painfully, and Voren'thal desperately. 

Arthas was gone, and Kael'thas thought he might miss him too, though his feelings about Arthas were growing difficult to parse. The Lich King wasn't supposed to be alone, and Kael'thas hoped that Abigail and Dorozhand were with him. If not them, then at least some of the other loyalists. 

Not wanting to lay in his captor's bed, despondent and frustrated, Kael'thas decided it would be better to bathe, dress, and lounge around Arthas' apartments, being despondent and frustrated there. He rose, pulling a blanket around him as he went, because the chill seemed worse than normal today. 

When he got into the main room, he saw the reason why: the curtains that lined the balcony were pulled back, and nothing stood between the rooms and the stark, killing winds of Icecrown.

"Damn it, Arthas." Kael'thas grumbled to himself about human thoughtlessness as he stalked across the room to pull the curtains shut again. "Just let me freeze to death, why don't you?"

As he passed the eating area, something caught his eye. 

No, not something, _someone_.

A woman was sitting at the table, and she rose as Kael'thas turned to face her. She was shorter than he was, with brown hair and olive skin. Dark, weathered leather covered every inch of her body, save her face, and across her chest, she wore a blue sash, secured with a lionshead clasp. 

Kael'thas stared at her, eyes wide. Uncomprehending.

"Prince Kael'thas," she said. "King Varian Wrynn sent me to rescue you."


	15. Chapter 15

The woman looked perfect, right down to the smallest details.

She was tall for a woman, though she was still a little shorter than Kael'thas. Her skin was olive, the tan from living in the South faded and washed out from the journey across Northrend. Kael'thas wouldn't have described her as unattractive, but rather, there was a plainness to her that made her face instantly forgettable.

A spy, then. An SI:7 agent.

The soles of her boots had some sort of metal grips attached to them, and there were hooks on her metal-braced gloves. Climbing gear. She must have scaled the side of Citadel and come in though the balcony. Wolf fur lined a black cloak that went all the way down to her ankles, though she wore the hood down and the cowl pulled back.

Kael'thas decided instantly that he was going to have to murder her.

"Prince Kael'thas?" she asked.

"Forgive me," he said, glancing around the apartments. "It's... been a long several months, but there's still no excuse for my behavior."

Arthas' slaves had grown laxer since the first night Kael'thas had been imprisoned in the Lich King's royal apartments. Sometimes they left knives or forks laying around with the dishes, and Kael'thas' requests for books, games, or other distractions were often granted. They knew he wasn't going to kill himself, and considering his condition, he stood little chance in a fight with even the youngest deathknights.

Still, there was nothing useful that might serve as a weapon, and in his current state, he doubted he had the strength to kill the woman with his bare hands. He thought of Terenas' old house swords, wondering what had become of them. Perhaps Calia had taken them when she had fled the palace with the royal bodyguards, but this was a ridiculous mental tangent and it didn't really matter where they were. They couldn't help him now.

"It's fine, your highness." She spoke in the Northern dialect, and she gestured to the balcony. "My team is waiting for you, on the glacier floor."

Were they now?

"I don't know that I can scale the wall," Kael'thas said, and he held out his hands to her, so she could see them shake. "Or make the trip to the coast. I'm not in good health."

"The High King thought that might be the case," she said. "We brought a healer with us. All you have to do is make the climb."

"Of course," Kael'thas said, doing his best to look grateful and eager. "I just need a moment, to change clothes, and gather some things."

The woman nodded.

"Forgive me again," Kael'thas said. "Being imprisoned here has been trying enough that I've forgotten my manners. May I know your name?"

"Natasha," she said. "Natasha Williams, SI:7."

"I'll just be a moment, Natasha. I know time is a factor here."

Kael'thas went back into the bedroom, wondering where the hell Arthas was and how long he could draw this out for. It would be a lot easier if Dorozhand or Abigail choose this moment to pay him a visit. Perhaps Danton would come by to play chess and one of them would save him the trouble of killing the woman.

For now, Kael'thas did his best to look as though he was playing along, and he changed into warmer clothes - which meant the ones he walked around in, rather than the ones he slept in, and he sat on the bed as he laced up his boots. Amidst the blankets was the cloak Arthas had wrapped him in on the first night, and though Kael'thas loathed the gift utterly, there had been nights it had grown cold enough that he had been forced to sleep wrapped in it. It was the only thing that truly blocked the chill. He pulled it out and dressed himself in it now, putting the hood up and running his hands over the strange white fur that lined it.

None of the deathknights or slaves arrived, and Kael'thas returned to the main room where the spy waited.

"Ready?" she asked.

"One more thing," Kael'thas said. He went into the dining area and glanced around at the stacks of books. None of them were heavy enough to serve as a weapon, and his gaze surveyed the room, it fell on Danton's chess set. He reached out to touch it, testing the weight. The frame was heavy, some kind of hard wood, and Kael'thas thought it might be reinforced with metal. It folded it in the center, to make it easier to transport, and Kael'thas swept the pieces off and put them inside.

They'd been twenty-six moves into a game, but it didn't matter, Danton was going to win anyways.

"Is that really necessary, your highness?" Natasha was watching him, critically. "It's just a game. King Wrynn can get you a dozen brand new ones."

"It belonged to my mother," Kael'thas lied. "One of Varian's ancestors gave it to her, I don't want to leave it."

*** *** ***

The vaults below Icecrown were in a word, impressive.

The Scourge had no need of currency, but even so, there were stockpiles of gems pulled from the bottomless saronite mines below Northrend, gold taken from Lordaeron and Quel'thalas or given in tribute by the vrykul, magical artifacts from Dalaran - many of them so dangerous that they were still locked in containment.

While Abigail doubted that any nation on Azeroth would acquiesce to dealing with the Scourge, the cartels and warring provinces had no problem with selling slaves to the vrykul, who in turn, sent them north, as tribute to Icecrown. Most of them died in the crossing, either on the Northern Sea or on the glacier, but it didn't matter, and knowing that vrykul would buy corpses as readily as the living hardly motivated the goblins and pirates to treat their captives better.

"My point," said Abigail as she walked briskly alongside the Lich King, "is that you've lost the right to make judgements about Kael'thas' relationships and how healthy they are."

" _My_ point," said Arthas, "is that Illidan was hurting him."

"Are you sure it's that?" Abigail asked. "Or is it that you see him as a trophy you took from Gul'dan?"

"It's--" Arthas stopped, glancing over at her. "Yes, and no. I can't tell what it is."

"It's fine," said Abigail. "We're going to help you. All of us, even Kael'thas."

"He hates me."

"Of course he hates you. You took everything from him. His family, his friends, his country, his life." They passed under a yawning arch, through the area of the vaults that held the artifacts looted from Dalaran. Each chamber was lined with saronite and sealed with protective wards. Some of them the deathknights could bypass, but others required a more significant power, and along with Arthas, Abigail headed towards the furthest chamber. "But he wants to live. He wants the world to live, even if it's you that's ruling it, and so long as we're smart about it, that outcome is inevitable."

"Then why chain ourselves here?" Arthas asked. They came to the deepest chamber, and he unsheathed Frostmourne from his back, holding it out to the wards, watching as they dispersed, one glyph at a time.

"It could be risky to leave Northrend," she said. "Before we commit to a war with the Alliance _and_ the Horde, we need to make sure we're in no danger of Ner'zhul reemerging."

"Put our own house in order," Arthas said, reaching out and swinging the heavy saronite door open.

"Something like that," Abigail said, following him inside.

*** *** ***

When Dorozhand found Vitoria Gladerunner, she was lounging about in her apartments. Lady Gladerunner was the Dawning Sun of the Solar Circle, and she had been exceptionally beautiful in life. In death, she was almost indescribably exquisite. Her skin was flawless and stark white, a sharp contrast to her red lips and the smoky, shadowed eyes. Her hair was piled elaborately on top of her head, the same shade of blood red as her lips. She was fond of dresses that had been brought along from Quel'thalas, but she had a number of tailors in her service who had learned to work with Nerubian silks. The neckline of the one she wore plunged, leaving little to the imagination.

A trio of human girls sitting at her feet, gazing up at her as she told a story, their expressions utterly enraptured. He doubted any of them were older than fifteen, and he gritted his teeth, annoyed and disgusted.

"Vitoria," he said, the words grinding out.

"Dorozhand." She sat back, turning her gaze to him, her eyes wandering over his body. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"It's never been a pleasure, Vitoria." Dorozhand ignored her gaze.

"Are you still sour about the Fall?" Vitoria chuckled, reaching down to pet one of the girls, stroking the slave's hair. "Dorozhand, love, it was _decades_ in the coming. Quel'thalas was doomed before the Menethil boy was even born."

"I didn't come to talk about Quel'thalas," Dorozhand said.

"What a shame," Vitoria said, grinning. Her fangs glinted in the light. "I suppose you also aren't here to come to bed with me? We could reminisce about the old days, the wonders of the elves' golden age." She looked him up and down again. "About how... liberating it is to be widowed. The best husbands are dead ones, wouldn't you agree?"

"Vitoria," said Dorozhand, reining in his temper, "where are your children?"

"My children?" She blinked. "Dorozhand, if you want a child, there are plenty of them around. All girls, of course, so perhaps none of them are to your... tastes?"

"I want _your_ children," he said, wondering if there might be some way to extract the three girls from Vitoria's clutches without consequence. The witch was highly placed and connected, even if as a deathknight he technically outranked her. She had friends among the Scourge, ones who would protect her interests. "Where are they?"

"Dorozhand." She leaned forward, crossing her arms over her knees. "Whatever for?"

"As far as you need be concerned," Dorozhand said, knowing that she could sense that she was getting to him, "because the Lich King wants the boy for his bed and Kael'thas has come around and decided he's going to marry Airesh after all. _Where_ , Vitoria?"

"I don't know," she said, feigning disinterest. "I've completely lost track of the little beasts."

"Your children aren't beasts, Vitoria."

The Dawning Sun rolled her eyes, as though she were listening to the same tired argument for the thousandth time. "I nearly lost my Station in the Circle because of them, Dorozhand. You can't even imagine the scandal. _Animals_ give birth in litters, not elves."

"They're _twins_ , Vitoria, not animals."

"Amusing." She eyed him, dangerously. "Next you're going to tell me we should extend full rights to the nulls."

"Kael'thas thought we should," Dorozhand said. "One of his companions was a null, Pathaleon."

"Then we're better off that the Prince is on his knees in the Lich King's bed and not ruling our country." Vitoria sat back and beckoned one of the girls up, to sit in her lap. The girl went without protest, enchanted and utterly compliant.

"I didn't come here to discuss Kael'thas either," Dorozhand said. "What did you do with your children?"

Vitoria moved the girl's hair to one side, reaching up to caress the human's neck with her fingernails. They were impossibly long and immaculately manicured. "I'm afraid I simply don't recall," she said, and leaned down, biting into the girl's flesh. The slave squirmed and pawed at Vitoria, but didn't cry out.

"I've changed my mind," Dorozhand said. He narrowed his eyes, but didn't look away, it wasn't as if he hadn't seen worse.

Vitoria looked up at him, curious. The girl slumped in her lap, her throat open, but not bleeding. The victims of the san'layn didn't bleed out. "About which part?"

"About discussing Kael'thas."

"What about the little race traitor?" She smiled, dangerously.

"Who exactly do you think the Lich King will side with when I have to tell Prince Kael'thas you've 'forgotten' what happened to his fiancée?" Dorozhand tilted his head, and raised his eyebrow.

"The Lich King needs a lesson in keeping his slaves compliant," Vitoria said. "Mine never give me any trouble."

"Shall I tell our Master you said that?" Dorozhand asked, letting the implication linger.

"How _dare_ you threaten me. Do you know who--"

"This isn't Quel'thalas," Dorozhand said sharply. "You _aren't_ the Dawning Sun, and I'm not a Well-Watcher."

She glared up at him, gripping at the girl, nails digging in. All three of the humans looked upset now, as though they could sense the tone of the room, but Vitoria's enchantments kept them from crying or protesting. Dorozhand felt the air chill, and he knew it was him.

" _I'm_ one of the Lich King's chosen knights, Vitoria." Dorozhand took a step forward, and for effect, he laid one hand on the hilt of the runeblade secured on his left hip. " _You_ are the servant, no matter how highly placed you think you are. Now tell me what's become of your children, you won't like what happens if I have to return with our Master."

For a moment, she just watched him, calculating. Then she waved one hand, dismissive. "I sold them."

"Sold them?" Dorozhand bit back on the urge to slap her. "Sold them to _who_?"

"I don't know," Vitoria said. "Another deathknight. A human. He liked the look of them, he wanted them for his bed."

" _Which_ human deathknight?"

"Dorozhand, love, you know they all the look the same to me." Vitoria laughed, rolling her eyes, looking at ease again. "They're probably in the Citadel somewhere, unless he took them to one of the outlying fortifications. This is tiresome, Well-Watcher. You're tiresome."

"I'm taking these girls," he said, curtly. "To soothe my profound disappointment at not finding your daughter."

"Dorozhand--"

"...and also, because I can," he said, "and because you're beneath me, Vitoria."

*** *** ***

When the spy turned to leave through the balcony door, Kael'thas swung the folded chess board and struck her in the side of the head. She sensed it coming and tried to bring her hand up to deflect it, and to her credit, she was fast. Not fast enough, though.

She crumpled to the floor, not quite unconscious, and Kael'thas kicked her in the temple as she tried to rise, hearing her skull crack under his boot. The woman hit the floor and lay still, her breathing labored and slow.

The chess set fared better, though there was blood and hair stuck to it, and a deep crack ran through the top part of the board. It was precious to Danton, and Kael'thas hated to use it as a murder weapon. Worse, was that he knew Danton would forgive him instantly and happily, when Kael'thas told him he had done it to stay with Arthas. As gently as he could, Kael'thas set it on the ground, wondering if it might be repaired.

"It was a nice try," he said. Kneeling down, he grabbed the fallen woman by her leathers and turned her onto her back. "But we both know that no one crossed that glacier in a cloak of wolf fur. I don't hear any wolves out there, do you?"

He had suspected that Ner'zhul's loyalists would try and get rid of him, but this was far more direct and sudden than he had anticipated. Kael'thas took the woman's belt knife, and then reached over and snapped the lionshead clasp free. He turned it over in his hands, inspecting it. It looked worn and natural. Authentic, but Kael'thas had to admit he was no expert. He wondered how many spies Varian had lost in the North, and if there was a real Natasha Williams.

Kael'thas tucked it inside his clothing. He'd keep it, he decided, on the off chance that he ever saw Varian Wrynn again. Perhaps the new High King or his agents would know who it had originally belonged to and their family could get some closure.

Odd that she hadn't just cut his throat in his sleep, but simply having Arthas' favorite slave vanish without explanation might upset the Lich King more. Thinking that Kael'thas had escaped or run away was a far better wedge to drive in and unbalance Arthas mentally. Then again, Ner'zhul's followers might have had something else planned for him, such as torture or mind control. Kael'thas doubted that any of the dark arts lay outside their area of expertise.

Behind him, Kael'thas heard the scrape of the dining room door, and he turned to look. That was probably Dorozhand, thank the Light. It would be easier to explain this to him than to Arthas, and it would save him the trouble of yelling until someone heard him.

Rising, Kael'thas headed for the dining area. From where the woman lay, he heard the rustle of cloth and leather.

He glanced back.

The body was gone.

*** *** ***

Less than a minute after Dorozhand left Vitoria's rooms, her charms broke and all three of the girls burst into hysterical sobs.

Inwardly, he cursed the woman. Of course she would do this to him, and he wondered how long she'd had them in her possession, though any amount of time would have been too long. The girls had been following him silently and obediently, which was how Dorozhand would have preferred it, but now they stopped in the center of shadowy hallway and wailed.

"Come along," Dorozhand said, trying to be authoritative without being demanding or threatening. "Keep walking. Stop crying."

They didn't, and Dorozhand scowled. This had been far easier with Kael'thas. As a child the Prince had been sharp and difficult, but that Dorozhand could recall, Kael'thas never cried. The deathknight walked around to the other side of the girls, and tried pushing them along. They barely budged, and he found he couldn't move them without pushing them over.

"This is not helpful," he said. "You are not helping our situation. I insist that you--"

"Dorozhand?"

The elven deathknight glanced up, a human had come around one of the dark corners (of which Icecrown had many) and was staring at him. One of the other loyalists, Thassarian.

The human man was taller than Dorozhand was, though not by much. They had never met in life, which left the elf to wonder if Thassarian's hair had been grey back then or if it was an affectation of undeath. Dorozhand suspected the latter, Thassarian had not been an old man when he died. He could see the other man's Frostmourne scar, starting under his left ear and twisting down across his neck. The angle made it clear to anyone who knew what they looking for that Thassarian had been kneeling when Arthas cut his throat.

"This isn't what it looks like," Dorozhand insisted.

"I would hope it's not." Thassarian's gaze was critical. "Who?"

"Vitoria," said Dorozhand. "She had them charmed, and she's broken it for no reason other than to vex me, I think."

Thassarian swore. "Pick them up," he said. "They can stay in my rooms until we can find somewhere safe for them."

"Pick them... up?" Dorozhand squinted. "Why?"

"To move them," Thassarian said, as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "We can't just leave them here, and this is no place for grief counseling. Grab the older one, I'll get these two."

Dorozhand balked. He was a noble, and the actual work of caring for children was the job of servants and the indentured. Noble parents attended school graduations and acknowledged accolades a child had received - so long as those accolades increased the standing of their High House, but doing the difficult work of raising children was almost unthinkable. The expression on Thassarian's face told Dorozhand that explaining the cultural complexities of the situation would be impossible, so instead, he lifted the older girl without protest. She flinched, squeezing her eyes shut.

"I don't think they like elves," he said.

"You don't say." Thassarian rolled his eyes. "It's not far. Just up the stairs over here."

Thassarian lifted one of the girls and took the other by her upper arm, forcing her to walk along with him or be dragged. Unsurprisingly, she chose to walk. Dorozhand followed him, the girl he was carrying wept steadily and he tried to ignore it.

Thassarian's rooms were simple and sparsely furnished. Deathknights didn't truly own anything, and up until a few months ago, the idea of privacy had been absurd. Ner'zhul hadn't seen them as anything other than extensions of his will, and things like rooms or personal effects or clothing to wear instead of their armor would have been superfluous, outlandish luxuries. He had not allowed them to rest, and though they didn't need to sleep in the same way the living did, it was mentally and spiritually exhausting to never be able to spend a few hours quiescent.

Some of Koltira's things were here, scattered about in the human man's rooms, and as he set the girl down, Dorozhand tried to ignore that too. He wondered if by this point, they'd just given up pretending and were living together, but it wasn't his place to comment.

Dorozhand practically dropped the girl as soon as he crossed the threshold of the door, and she stumbled, barely landing on her feet. Thassarian set his girls down far more gently and shot Dorozhand a look. At the very least, they all seemed to have cried themselves out, and now they just looked distant and hollow.

"Go into my room," Thassarian said, pointing through one of the side doors, "and get some sleep, because no is going to care about you tomorrow."

"I..." said the oldest girl, and she wiped her face with her sleeves before continuing. "Wait. You... don't need all three of us, do you? Can't it..." she grimaced, looking between them, "...just be me?"

Thassarian glanced at him, and Dorozhand nodded.

"You're right," the human said. He nodded to the other two girls. "It can just be you. Stay here. The other two can go."

The girl ushered the other two away, closing the door to Thassarian's bedroom behind them. She came to them, without looking up at either them. There was practiced subservience in the way she bowed her head and drew her shoulders in.

Thassarian took her by the chin and tilted her head up, looking into her eyes. She flinched at the touch.

"Is she a Light channeler?" Dorozhand asked.

"No, just brave." He let the girl go. "Go with the others. You're safe for now, neither of us is going to follow you in there."

The girl looked confused, but she backed away from the gratefully and fled into Thassarian's room, closing the door behind her. As it echoed shut, Dorozhand heard them all crying again.

"That one could be one of Kael'thas' maids," Dorozhand said, taking a seat. He tried not to look directly at any of Koltira's things. "The others are too young. Seeing them will upset him."

"Seeing them upsets _me_ ," Thassarian said, "but it's not as if there's anywhere for them to go. Another crossing would kill them. Why are you harassing Vitoria? Do you want to die a second time?"

"No," said Dorozhand, sighing. He would have had a migraine, if it were still possible. "It's not that. It's her children."

Thassarian glanced towards the bedroom door, but moved to sit opposite him.

"Not those ones," Dorozhand said. "Vitoria has two children of her own, a boy and a girl. The girl was vetted and very seriously considered as a marriage candidate for Kael'thas. He asked for her, yesterday."

"Does he fancy her?" Thassarian asked. "It's an odd request, and don't you think it'll make Arthas jealous?"

"I don't know," Dorozhand said. "Living companions will help him to stave off the deleterious effects of withering, but I have no idea where the girl is. Vitoria said she sold her children to a human deathknight, but I'm at a complete loss. Do you have any thoughts?"

Thassarian smiled wryly. "What? You're asking me because you think all of us humans know each other?"

"I'm asking to you because he's probably from Lordaeron, and you were one of Arthas' Captains." Dorozhand rolled his eyes. "You know more about his former soldiers than I do. Also, because you're the only human I know personally, other than Danton and Abigail, and you're available."

"I'm touched."

"The boy is a paladin," Dorozhand said.

"Now I'm intrigued," Thassarian said. "You knew him?"

"Not personally," said Dorozhand, "but when I was the leader of the Sunwell's guards, I made it my business to know who was a channeler and who wasn't."

"Not every Light channeler is a paladin," Thassarian pointed out.

"He would have been," Dorozhand said. "After two thousand years, you start to get a sense for who has the potential and who doesn't."

"So there's a paladin running around Icecrown somewhere, completely unaccounted for?"

"An untrained one," said Dorozhand, "but yes, that's the general idea."

"A child?"

"Once you get to be my age," Dorozhand said, "everyone seems young. Vitoria's children are few years younger than Arthas was when he died. Adults, after a fashion. As I said, the girl was old enough to get married, not that Kael'thas was interested."

Thassarian looked curious. "What changed?"

"With Kael'thas?" Dorozhand glanced in the direction of Thassarian's bedroom, the crying having finally stopped. "I don't know. Light knows he never cared for women before."

"He was pursuing Jaina Proudmoore," said Thassarian. "They were in a relationship for years, before her engagement to Arthas, it was public."

"And scandalous," said Dorozhand. "I always suspected he did that to just cause an uproar in Quel'thalas. The Solar Circle was furious with him."

Thassarian folded his arms across his chest. "If Vitoria is an example of how the Solar Circle behaved, let's not sit here and pretend they were any sort of moral authority."

"Do not presume to lecture me on how Quel'thalas was governed, Thassarian." Dorozhand glared across the room at the other man.

"Then don't make excuses for someone who rapes little girls," Thassarian snapped. He gripped the arms of his chair and rose. "We shouldn't sit here wasting any more time, we should go and find Vitoria's children."

*** *** ***

The vault that Abigail followed Arthas into was small and dark, the only illumination came from the glyphs on their runeblades, and it cast the room in an eerie blue light.

A single treasure was secured inside. A shelf set into the far wall held an urn of gold and brass. It was carved with prayers in the Northern dialect, but other than that, it was simple and unassuming.

Kel'thuzad's phylactery.

Arthas reached for it, but hesitated, his fingers resting on the lip of the lid.

"I can do it, your Majesty," said Abigail. "Should you find that you're unable."

"It's not as if it's going to hurt him," Arthas said, and Abigail got the sense he was trying to justify the act to himself. "He won't even feel it, and if it turns out we were wrong, we can restore him later."

"Arthas," she said. "Your trust in us is not misplaced."

He glanced back at her.

"You were my King before all this," she said. "Nothing has changed in my heart. I love you now as I loved you then."

"Are you saying the because it's true?" Arthas smirked. "Or because you think I won't do it?"

"Both, your majesty."

*** *** ***

Kael'thas backed away from the blood on the floor until his shoulders hit the wall. The red smear was the only proof the woman had been there, her body was gone. His eyes searched the room, but his darting gaze found nothing.

With one hand, he touched his pocket. The lionshead clasp was still there, the knife in his other hand was real. She hadn't been an illusion, and Kael'thas wondered how quickly a dead body could reanimate. It was possible that everyone living in Icecrown was carrying some new version of the plague, an illness that was virtually unnoticeable until the victim rapidly deteriorated and became a zombie.

It had been Arthas' motivation in culling Stratholme, and Quel'thalas' excuse to seal the borders. Kael'thas didn't believe for one second that the plague was gone, but it took far longer then this for a victim to turn, and zombies were hardly subtle. Worse would be if there was a necromancer waiting in the wings, Kael'thas certainly wasn't in any shape for a spellcaster's duel.

With one hand, he drew the knife. With the other, he shifted his fingers through the air, trying to feel for threads of magic, to cast his senses out. The collar blocked virtually everything, and all he felt was cold and frustration.

"Arthas!" he called out. "Arthas Menethil! If you've left me alone to be murdered like this I'm going to extremely cross with you!"

Something moved in the corner of Kael'thas' eye and he followed the movement upwards, turning his gaze toward the ceiling. When he caught sight of what it was, he felt his mind twist.

Something inside him broke, and Kael'thas stood rooted to the spot, clinging precariously to sanity.

It was a creature he had only read about in books, a monster he hadn't even believed existed. One of the Old, Forgotten Things.

A mindflayer.

"Kael'thas," it said, and it had a woman's voice. Seductive and motherly in equal measure. "You poor, lost child."

It was speaking Thalassian, or at least, he thought it was. Kael'thas could see black blood oozing from the cut on the side of its head where he had struck it with the chess board, and two of its eyes had been gouged out. Not that it seemed to matter, it had rows of them lining its sleek face. Bizarrely, it wore clothing, the same dark leathers it had when it had been pretending to be the spy, the blue sash fluttering loose. He desperately wanted raise the knife, but all he could do was stand there, paralyzed. It was clinging, upside down, to the ceiling, and it starting crawling towards him.

"How--" he began, but no more words would come. Even looking at the creature was hurting him, and it was impossible to order his thoughts.

"It's fine," it said as it approached, twisting its body at an improbable angle and crawling down the wall. "Kael'thas, everything is fine. Don't be afraid. Arthas is my enemy too."

"Arthas--" Kael'thas' mind wanted nothing more than to retreat into the dark comfort of thoughtless panic, but he refused to allow it. Six centuries of sorcerous study allowed him to grip the tether of control, if only barely.

"Yes." Its voice was a purr, and it was close now, close enough to touch. "He's forgotten the sun, forgotten how to be warm, but you remind him. He loved you so much, and from so far away, and for so long."

"No," Kael'thas said. He didn't want to hear it, didn't want it to be true. He tried to back away, but he was already against the wall.

"Yes," it said. "Don't be afraid, Kael'thas. I'm your friend. We can help each other. He lets you get so close. He trusts you."

"I can't--" Kael'thas closed his eyes and shook his head, trying to clear it. "I can't help you." He managed the words, with great effort. "I won't."

When he opened his eyes, the creature was gone.

Voren'thal stood in its place, though the Seer wasn't himself. Kael'thas knew the stars in Voren'thal's eyes, the constellations they formed. The Pillar, in the right eye. The Dragonhawk and the Solar Sail, in the left. This Voren'thal's eyes were wrong, the stars inside them were twisted and alien, falling and failing. There was an ugly cut on the side of his oldest friend's skull, and Voren'thal was bleeding.

"Does this help?" it asked, and the grip of madness and fear retracted.

"Who-- who are you?" Kael'thas asked, looking it over. " _What_ are you? You aren't one of Arthas' minions."

"Kael'thas," it said, ignoring the question. It came forward again, reaching up to stroke his cheek. "I can't imagine how hard it must be for you, to be so alone. Such a cruel irony, that you want so badly to be loved, and that the only one willing to return it is a man you feel nothing for."

"Don't--" he began.

"Your parents, Dorozhand, Garion, Jaina." It gave him a meaningful look. "Illidan. None of them ever wanted _you_ , did they? A worthless heir, a burden to be endured, a shameful little secret, a few nights worth of indulgence. That's all you are, isn't it? "

Kael'thas glared at it.

"...and Illidan, you must know he's not coming. He took your army, and that was the only thing you possessed that was of any value to him."

"Is that all you've come for?" Kael'thas snapped the words out. If it had hoped to upset him, it had, though not in the way he was certain it intended. "You've gone to great effort to tell me things I already know."

"No," it said. "I came to rescue you. To help you, so you could help me."

"I don't even know who you are," Kael'thas said, wary. The fear lingered, manageable, but ever-present. He had seen druids change shape, but this was something entirely different, half-illusion, half the warping of flesh. It made his skin crawl. "All you've done is try to trick me, why should I trust you? Do you even have a name?"

"My name," it said, and smiled, "is Yogg-Saron."

The word translated into nonsense in Kael'thas mind, and he felt as though he'd met eyes with a basilisk. His will drained out of him like water through a sieve, and he sank down to his knees, the point of the knife catching on the floor of ice and stone. As before, he grasped at the tether of sanity, clinging desperately.

It loomed over him, and it beckoned with one hand. "Kael'thas, give me the knife."

It would have been the easiest thing in the world to do, but he managed to hold onto it.

"Kael'thas," it said, and it took him by the chin and tilted his head up. "The dead can see right through me, so I'm going to need your skin. It's alright, you won't feel anything."

"I-- no. What!?" Kael'thas' eyes widened. "No!"

Behind them, the door scraped as it swing open, and the familiar shriek of metal on ice snapped Kael'thas out of his trance. He couldn't see who it was, and he didn't care, all that mattered was getting away from this thing. He scrambled to his feet, bringing the knife up as he rose, and looking away from not-Voren'thal's face as he plunged it into the thing's stomach.

It jerked backwards, screaming, and Kael'thas pulled the knife out. The edge snagged on something inside the thing's body, and Kael'thas felt membranes and soft bone tear as the blade came free. When it moved back, he kicked it in the knee. His own boots weren't metal-shod for climbing, but they had heavy soles, to keep the cold out, and he heard something break inside the creature's body. The noise was wet and sucking, and whatever it was that broken, it couldn't have been bone.

The mindflayer let loose an echoing cry and the illusion of Voren'thal melted away. It surged forward again, its hands coming up to encircle Kael'thas' throat. It didn't quite make it, before its hands closed, the tip of a runeblade erupted from the center of its chest, the glyphs on the sword lighting up in sequence.

It was Danton. In one smooth motion, the deathknight pulled the runeblade free, grabbed the creature and threw it backwards. It hit the floor with a wet, fleshy thud, and Danton slammed one foot down on its back as it tried to rise, bringing his runeblade down to decapitate it. Even headless, the body thrashed and coiled, a torrent of black ichor spilling out across the floor, and Danton ground down with his heel, holding it in place.

Kael'thas had never been so happy to see one of Arthas' minions, and he doubted he ever would be again. Danton glanced over at him, and even through the collar Kael'thas sensed the same current of power he felt when Arthas gave wordless instruction to his slaves.

*** *** ***

There were deathknights who were poets.

When their thoughts washed up against the ocean that was the Lich's King's mind, they were flowing, lyrical, even joyous. It was a delight to hear them, even filtered through the endless darkness that was the Scourge.

Danton was not one of these deathknights. The old man was curt, closed off, and to-the-point.

 _Did it hurt you?_ Abigail heard Danton's words echoing through her connection to the Lich King, knowing that Arthas was seeing it too. The bloody corpse of the mindflayer, Kael'thas on the other side of the room, as far away as he could get. His form shaking, and his expression drawn to the edge of panic.

 _Only emotionally._ Kael'thas' response. _Where's Arthas? He was here with me. Why did he leave?_

Instantly, the Lich King's hand fell away from the phylactery, and he turned, leaving the room at a pace so quick it was nearly a run.

"Abigail," he ordered. "Secure the Citadel. Make sure there are no more. Check all of the living by hand if you have to."

Abigail followed him, reaching up to draw the Ashbringer from her back, her own thoughts echoing out through the link that connected them all, dire and terrible. They parted ways outside the Vaults, and it wasn't until afterwards that they would realize they had forgotten to secure the door they had opened.


End file.
